


Far From Over

by herworldsinwords, RosePond



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-06-26 22:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 145,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15672135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herworldsinwords/pseuds/herworldsinwords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosePond/pseuds/RosePond
Summary: The War is over and a new school year is starting at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger and her friends are returning for their seventh year (properly) at school but not all old prejudices have been put to ground with the death of Voldemort. Though most people are just struggling to move on and return their lives to a semblance of 'normal', there are still mutterings in the hallways and meetings happening in the shadows. All Hermione wants is the joy of getting her N.E.W.T.s without the threat of imminent death hanging over her head for once, and Merlin help anyone who gets in her way, but a certain Slytherin is determined to prove that his past won't define his future, and he's decided that associating with one Hermione Granger is the way to accomplish that. He's only using her smarts and good social standing to ingratiate himself into the new wizarding society; he certainly doesn't care that Ron Weasley is definitely not the right boy to handle her wit and firecracker personality. Of course not. WIP





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with herworldsinwords.

Hello everyone! Welcome to my first HP fanfic, cowritten with "herworldsinwords" (she did the Draco parts, and is an amazing writer who I’m honoured to work with). We did our best to stay in canon, but I think a few characters who technically died in the Battle of Hogwarts ended up mysteriously ‘resurrected’ as we went. This is a Draco/Hermione fic, so if that’s not your ship, please play nice. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as we’re having fun writing it! :) 

Far From Over

Chapter One

Draco had arrived to board the Hogwarts Express sans his parents. He wasn't alone in this, but the reasons behind the missing parents of most students was more morbid than his own. Only his mother had chosen to send him off that morning, a soft kiss to the forehead that Draco had had to bend his knees to accept from her. She would stay behind with Lucius, who hadn't bothered to come see his son off to his last year at Hogwarts. Not that Draco had expected anything less of his prideful father. It hurt, though, that once again his mother had chosen to support his father rather than her own son, even in this small thing. He pushed such thoughts aside as he gazed at the familiar platform, with its smells and sounds he knew so well.

His luggage had already been whisked away to be put on the train, so all he possessed on him was his wand and a black leather satchel slung across his chest at the shoulder. He kept his head low, not wishing to meet the eyes of the people around him. He knew even now, after a year had passed and the dead had been buried, the war still weighed heavy on his peers. He was mostly ignored, which suited him just fine. He made his way towards the train, as he didn't have his usual group of friends to greet; they were either dead or had chosen not to return. The ones who did come back seemed not to want to associate with the likes of Draco.

A commotion caught his ear, and he looked up to see an increasing group of students near one of the doors to the train. Draco was sure he recognized who was at the heart of it. It had to be the Golden Trio. He couldn't stop his eyes from rolling at the moniker. His curiosity piqued but his heart just wasn't in it—this year he would keep his head low and just get through the year. Even as he thought it, he caught a glimpse of the three. Potter was still short but had grown over the year, stoic yet friendly. Weasley, a hand scratching at his neck modestly, but over all pleased to see his friends. And...and Granger. Draco faltered in his step, barely acknowledging the yelled "Wotcher, Malfoy!" from behind him. 

Something was different about Granger, something that caught his eye. She had grown too, but before Draco could get a really good look at her the train whistle filled the air, drowning out all noise on the platform, and the students were called to board the train. He looked away and hurried towards the train, hoping he'd find a compartment to himself. Stiff shoulders met him as he made his way down the thin corridor of the train. The first Draco thought was an accident, the second, likewise, but by the third Draco realized the trend. After that he gave as good as he got, not to be cowed by anyone. His mistakes were large and looming but Draco would be cursed if he let everyone beat him down. He was still a man, after all, albeit a greatly humbled one. Like a glove, he felt his old sneer settle itself comfortably on his face, an impenetrable mask. The shoulders came less frequently after that.

+++

Hermione Granger stood among the throngs of Hogwarts students both old and new, her fingers nervously clutching her school bag. Returning to Hogwarts to finish out her 7th year had always been part of the plan after the war, though she had to admit she was a little surprised Harry and Ron had decided to join her (though she suspected Mrs. Weasley had been a factor in both their cases, she wasn't a force to be taken lightly when she set her mind to something, and a little thing like both boys being “adults” in the wizarding world and not under her rule any more, wasn’t going to stop her.) The group of them had met at King's Cross, seen off by George and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley (as Ron's older brothers were all at work) as well as Hermione’s own parents. She hoped that Mr. Weasley hadn’t pestered them too much about the workings of flashlights and the like after she’d left. 

She’d trooped through the barrier at platform 9 3/4 along with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, who was starting her 7th year as well. Ginny had ribbed Ron a great deal over the fact that they were in the same year now, and pointed out that he couldn't treat her like a little kid any more (not, Hermione thought privately, that Ginny had put up with Ron's teasing since her fourth year anyway, but she was having way too much fun bugging him about having 'failed' a year to stop now—despite Ron's repeated shouts of "For the last time, I didn't drop out of school, I was fighting You-Know-Who with Harry and Hermione!") 

The general celebrity of their group, along with Ginny, Neville, and a handful of other students who had played key parts in the battle, hadn't dimmed much in the past year. The first year students crowding together with their parents or older siblings stared at them with wide-eyed awe, and many of the older students returning to classes called out greetings as they passed, or stopped to talk for a few minutes. Next to her, Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his ears faintly pink at all the attention, though Hermione could tell he was enjoying the praise. Harry, now old hat at being treated like he was a superstar, took the crowds in stride, nodding and grinning easily, though Hermione could see that he looked tired underneath it all. The whole ordeal had been hardest on Harry of course, and she knew he'd much rather just go back to being a normal teenage boy. As for herself, Hermione was looking forward to returning to the normalcy of study and learning. She'd always been hungry to learn new things, and she couldn't wait to finally start studying the intricate potions and complex spells that came along with her NEWT year. 

The train whistle blasted its warning siren and there was a surge toward the train doors. Hermione grabbed hold of the back of both Harry and Ron’s robes and gave them a tug toward the shiny red train, helped along by the press of students. “Come on!” she cried, giving them both a shove. “If we don’t hurry we’ll get stuck in the compartment next to the loo, and you know you don’t want to spend the next six hours with that smell, Ron.” 

As they pushed their way through the crowd, a flash of blond hair caught Hermione’s eye. She hesitated for a moment, hardly able to believe who she was seeing: Draco Malfoy had decided to return to Hogwarts as well. He was striding quickly along the platform, his tall, lean form cutting a path through the crowd by presence alone, unaccompanied by any of his friends. She wondered if none of them had decided to return to school or if they still branded the Malfoy’s as cowards for turning their backs on Voldemort in order to ensure their own survival, no matter the cost. As Malfoy shouldered his way past a glaring fourth year boy a few students ahead of her—the look on his face daring anyone to say a single word to him one way or the other—Hermione knew that no matter his faults, there was one thing Draco Malfoy would always be, and that was a surviver.

+++

There was a surprising number of students returning to Hogwarts, Draco thought, as he pulled open yet another occupied compartment on the train. This one held a mixed group of second and third years, by the looks of them, all frightened once they realized who the tall figure was standing there, looking in at them. He quietly slid the door closed and moved on to the next. Just as he reached for the door, a figure stood in front of him, blocking his way. “Look what's crawled out of the pits of Azkaban to terrorize us again,” sneered a boy, whose face was familiar but not enough to conjure a name. 

Draco pulled his shoulders back, already feeling the students behind him beginning to press against him, urging him forward. He held his ground. "I'm sorry," Draco said, cold eyes flickering disinterestedly up and down the boy’s frame as if he were only worth not even half a moment of Draco's time. "I don't have the displeasure of knowing who you are." Draco made to move on but the boy held fast. 

“Oh, but we all know you, Malfoy,” the boy’s voice picked up, bouncing around the cramped corridor as if he'd used some sort of spell to enhance it. The students behind Draco were taking an interest, no longer pushing him along as they had been before. Now they hushed, and the weight of their eyes fell heavy on his shoulders. The boy seemed bolstered by the attention of his peers. He smirked, arms sliding to cross his chest. "Suppose we'll have to teach you a lesson, what do you think guys?" It was only then that Draco noticed two other boys flanking the original. Draco felt his stomach twist. So much for keeping his head down. The world seemed set on bringing the worst out of him. 

"Don't want to go making threats you can't see through,” Draco said darkly. He flicked his wrist and his wand slid smoothly from its holster into his waiting palm.

"He's got his wand!" he heard whispered behind him, and the crush of students seemed to collectively step back. They had all forgotten that this was the same Draco who'd surrendered to the side of light, who'd foiled every one of his plans to bring Death Eaters into Hogwarts, whose side had lost the war. All they saw before them was a Death Eater with a wand. The students before him were undeterred. The presence of his wand egged them on, and Draco heard the snick of their own wands sliding into their hands. 

Draco stepped forward again, and just as he'd guessed, the leader stepped into him, pushing Draco back. Draco answered with a rough shove of a forearm into the boy's chest, the movement trapping his two goons behind him. The quickness of the movement caught everyone off guard. He heard screams behind him and students from both sides seemed to fall towards the four of them. In the commotion Draco cast a Disillusionment Charm and pushed past the yelling boys who'd confronted him. The Charm worked, until he bumped into someone. A girl, short and petite, a sixth year Draco recognized. Her eyes alighted on him but before she could speak Draco flicked his wand stealthily at her, a Confundus Charm hitting her with a spark. Draco wasted no time, he moved on and Confunded everyone who came into contact with him, the flow of students thinning out until he found himself at the end of the train. He slipped easily into an empty compartment, most students having not made it this far, and closed the door behind him. He then fell with an uncharacteristic gracelessness into the waiting seat, his body leaning forward until his head fell into his hands. 

Draco had known this year would be a tough one, but he hadn't expected this, not so soon. He could only imagine how the rest of the year would go, students only growing more bold in their dislike of him. It seemed Draco would have to fight for every inch of his redemption. 

And he knew he deserved every second of it.

+++

There was a commotion down the train corridor, and Hermione stood on tiptoes to try and see over the heads of the press of students. At only five feet five, she was significantly shorter than a lot of people, especially the boys, and she had to struggle to make out what was going on. 

"Oh, but we all know you, Malfoy," a snide voice cut across the babble of students, and Hermione's eyes landed on the back of Draco Malfoy's head. 

He was standing rigidly in the middle of the crowd, his shoulders stiff and his back very straight. He muttered something sharply back at the boy, a Ravenclaw seventh year Hermione had seen play against Harry and Ron at Quidditch, though his name escaped her, but it was too low for her to make out. Whatever it was, it was quickly followed by someone shrieking "He's got his wand!" and general panic and scrambling to try and back away. Though because the corridor was so packed with students trying to find compartments with their friends, there wasn't much space for anyone to go anywhere at all. The result was a lot of people bumping into walls and stepping on feet. Hermione was knocked backward by a terrified first year boy and stamped on Ron's foot, causing him to yell in pain. 

"Oh! Sorry, Ron!" she said quickly, turning to give him an apologetic look. 

"Was that Malfoy?" Ron demanded, sounding ready for a fight. "What the bloody hell is he doing back at school? Couldn't get into Durmstrang?" 

"Shush, Ron!" Hermione snapped, turning back to the arguing boys only to find Malfoy had disappeared in the chaos. The Ravenclaw boy—Michael Corner, that was his name—and two sidekicks, reminiscent of Crabb and Goyle, were glaring around the corridor as if expecting to find Malfoy hiding under someone's cloak. "It can't be exactly easy on him—I mean, people like him—to return to regular life after...well, after—”

"After spending seven years being a complete and utter git?" Harry supplied. "Hermione, I know his family helped at the very end of the war, but that doesn't make up for the abuse they heaped on people before it. Malfoy can't be expecting to have an easy run of it this year." He pulled open a compartment door and followed Ron inside. 

Hermione hovered anxiously in the corridor for a moment. Most of the students had filtered off into compartments of their own, but in the next compartment over from theirs Hermione could hear Michael ranting about how Draco Malfoy no longer ruled the school and that no one should let him, or any other Slytherin, try and throw their weight around that year. He went on for several minutes, egged on by his friends, their voices carrying loudly through their not-quite-closed compartment door, but Harry soon called over to her, asking what was so fascinating in the corridor, and she stepped back inside, closing the door behind her, blocking out Michael's threats. 

She hoped there wouldn't be trouble when they all got to the castle. Now that Voldemort was gone she'd been banking on a stress-free school year—well as much as one could be in their NEWT year—and she didn't want old rivalries springing back to life. If some ridiculous squabble caused her to fail a class, well, she'd put the knowledge of 'best in her year' to more vindictive use than the professors up at the school would probably like.

+++

Draco hadn't intended to fall asleep. Somewhere between thoughts of surviving the year and what had happened earlier on the train, he had closed his eyes and let sleep take him. He had only awoke upon the slowing of the Hogwarts Express, its great length coming to a squealing, steamy halt. They had arrived at Hogwarts. The earlier excitement of starting a new school year and possibly starting over had been swiftly swept away, and all that was left was a rising sense of foreboding. Draco would have to do better than just keeping his head down. He would have to be all but invisible. If only I had Potter's invisibility cloak, Draco thought, his mind flashing back to the memory of years ago, a young Draco Malfoy spotting a pair of severed feet lying upon the floor of the train. He remembered the triumph he had felt at smashing the git’s nose in. Now, the memory was a bitter one that left a sour taste in his mouth. If he’d been half as smart as he’d believed himself, he would have taken the cloak and kept it. In hindsight he was glad he hadn't. It would be one more thing that he would have to relinquish; his wand and his pride already in the hands of the light. 

Draco gathered himself, his wand waving unconsciously to rearrange his mussed hair. Not that anyone would see him, as he followed up the spell with another Disillusionment Charm. He listened to the sound of excited Hogwarts students making their way off of the train, but didn't join them. Instead he'd let the majority of them spill onto the waiting platform. That way his chances of bumping into anyone would lessen by more than half. “Oh, but we all know you, Malfoy!" The words came to him unbidden and he gritted his teeth. His past would be his own worst enemy, but that was a burden Draco would have to bare. He'd only himself to thank. Well, himself and the pressure from his parents, more accurately his father. But he wouldn't dwell on that. 

It seemed that most of the students had cleared out, for the footsteps of others were distant. He stood and slid open the door to his compartment and poked a silvery-blonde head out into the corridor. He was right. He stepped back and grabbed his bag then entered into the corridor proper. He walked quietly down the length of the train, his gait unhurried. He was in no rush to find himself in the battery of bodies outside. He thought, again, of the Trio and wondered why none of them had come to his rescue. He hadn't expected some sort of grand show of camaraderie from the three, but Draco had thought that at least he and Potter had settled upon sort of...tolerance of each other. Draco hadn't thought that the Saviour would let anything like bullying carry on at Hogwarts, not even of Draco. Weren't Gryffindors famous for their sense of fairness or some such rot? Not that Draco expected to be saved at every turn, no. Just his luck that the Trio had decided to stop meddling right when Draco might have need of them. 

All too soon Malfoy found himself looking out at a teeming crowd of Wizards, Witches and Wixes all headed slowly toward carriages, or, in the case of the First years, towards boats. Draco looked at the carriages and swallowed at the sight of the steeds that bore them. Too leathery and skeletal to be mistaken for horses, the Thestrals tethered to the carriages stood solemnly in pairs at the front of each transport. Every now and then one would stomp a hoof, the sharp clack of bone on cobblestones barely audible over the din of voices. They were ominous, even to Draco, who had lived with the horror that was the Dark Lord for years. The mass of students began to thin and Draco made his way towards the carriages, steering clear of the gaunt creatures. One made to nip at his sleeve, his Disillusionment Charm meaningless in those black, fathomless eyes. He deftly side-stepped those questing. He was so distracted and unnerved by them that he hardly noticed when he arrived at the only carriage that held an empty spot he could slide into. 

It was with terrible dread that he saw this carriage held three very familiar faces. Absently he wondered Why me? It seemed that respect, or maybe fear of the three had kept these seats vacant. But, save climbing aboard one of the boats along with the first years, this was Draco's only option at gaining access to Hogwarts. Maybe they won't even notice me. Draco thought as he carefully stepped up to the carriage. Maybe I could climb in without any of them paying any mind. But that idea was quickly thwarted when Draco reached up, his foot settling on the step and the carriage tilted with the weight of his body. He felt his Charm slip from him as he drew their attention. 

He lifted his head, his expression carefully blank as he pulled himself the rest of the way into the carriage. "This is the only available seat,” he said, his words defensive despite his efforts at coming off as impervious at his lack of options.

+++

Hermione turned her head in surprise as the carriage suddenly lurched to the left and she slid a few inches across the empty bench she’d been stretching out on. On the other side of the carriage Harry and Ron were absorbed in an argument about a Quidditch match they’d gone to see last week and neither of them turned to see what had caused the tilt. It was several seconds before Hermione could form words. Draco Malfoy was climbing into their carriage. He was seating himself next to her. Two things he would have died rather than do willingly not so long ago. 

“This is the only available seat,” Malfoy snapped, his voice defensive as he folded his tall form onto the bench, a defiant glare slicing across the small space at Harry and Ron, who’d broken off mid-debate about whether or not Puddlemere United had fouled the Chuddly Cannon’s in the final two minutes of the match, to gape at him. 

For a few seconds no one said anything, then Harry nodded slightly at Draco, and Ron, next to him, seemed to swallow back something scathing. “Malfoy,” Harry acknowledged, his voice cool but not antagonizing, and Hermione watched as Malfoy’s face relaxed the tiniest bit. 

“Potter,” he returned, his voice smooth as ice, but tempered, as Harry’s seemed to be, by the unspoken desire not to start trouble. She watched as Malfoy cut his eyes at Ron, “Weasley,” —Ron’s mouth tightened, as if he expected an insult to follow this address— “Granger.” he finished, angling his body so that he faced her head on. 

The civilness in Draco Malfoy’s tone and mannerisms was jarring. Hermione felt her body lean unconsciously away from the penetrating stare of Malfoy’s grey eyes. Why was he looking at her like that? As if he could see straight into her soul? She blinked first, and averted her gaze. “Malfoy,” she forced herself to say, keeping her voice cordial. 

Outside the carriage there was a series of whinnies and then the thestrals jerked into motion, sending the carriage lurching forward and throwing Hermione off balance and rather gracelessly into Malfoy’s right shoulder. She let out a startled squeak, more out of surprise than any sense of injury, because just as she made contact with Malfoy’s body his arms shot up, catching her shoulders and gripping them firmly, holding her back so that she wouldn’t fall right into his lap. 

Time seemed to stand still then. Somewhere behind her, Hermione could hear Harry asking if she was ok, followed quickly by Ron’s indignant shout that Malfoy let her go and keep his hands to himself. He did so at once, pushing her back immediately, and shifting his body so that he was sitting squashed up against the far wall of the carriage, as far away from her as he could get. 

“S-sorry,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment—from tumbling like a second year with no experience riding in the carriages, she was sure. But as she turned quickly away from all three boys, looking steadfastly out the carriage window, Hermione couldn’t help but replay the last few minutes over in her mind. Malfoy had reacted with lightning reflexes, but he hadn’t jumped out of her path and let her face plant on the seat, or worse, the gritty carriage floor, or even just shoved her away from his person with a look of disgust. He’d caught her, and his touch had been…well…not exactly gentle, but steady. 

And there had been something in his eyes when he did so.

+++

The silence around them stretched thick and tangible. Draco could feel the moment hanging there in the air, a fragile thing. His body stiffened as they stared and it was just on the edge of his tongue to say something, anything to break the silence, but then Potter spoke. It was only his name, his tone neutral enough, but it broke the spell. He greeted Potter in turn, then Weasley and last, Granger, her name spoken more softly than he had intended. He barely noticed as she leaned away, putting distance between them. 

He felt bound again, but this time by a much more pleasant feeling. He couldn't look away, instead finding himself lost in Granger's gaze. Her eyes, how had he not noticed them before? Beautiful and alive—she looked away and Draco could breathe again. He inhaled, confused at what he was feeling. He didn't like it. 

The carriage jarred harshly, jolting Draco, and it was only the quickness he'd gained from many Quidditch practices that allowed him to catch Hermione about the shoulders before she'd tumbled onto his lap. Draco's hands held on a moment too long, and in that moment he felt the slightness of her frame. She was small in his grasp, delicate. He knew from experience, though, that Hermione packed quite a punch, despite her looks. He found himself letting go with an exaggerated hastiness at the sound of Ron's loud voice cutting through his thoughts. He pushed himself as close as he could to the other side of the carriage, rubbing his hands. They tingled with an energy he couldn’t explain. He felt it spreading up his arms, over his shoulders, down his chest until it nestled warmly in the pit of his stomach. 

He could see her blushing prettily, but he averted his eyes, wary of the small bit of peace they'd established only moments before. Weasley, acting more like his name sake than usual, looked ready to pounce. Potter's eyes flickered between he and Granger but said nothing. The silence was back, this time even weightier than before. Draco forced himself to relax, his hand lifting to smooth back his hair. The gesture settled his nervous and he looked around, noting that they still had at least ten more minutes of this torturous ride. He would almost rather walk than endure it, but he had made his decision and so would manage. 

"I have it on good authority that Puddlemere did foul the Cannons last week. The referee was paid off, so he didn't call it,” Draco said into the silence, hoping to start back up the conversation he had interrupted. Weasley was hesitant to reply, but the subject of Quidditch was just too tempting to ignore. 

Potter, his eyes cutting to Weasley, spoke before his friend could, maybe sensing the belligerence of Weasley's reply. "And what is your 'good authority', Malfoy?" 

Draco raised his hand, gesturing into the air at nothing in particular. "My fa--" He stopped short, deciding that mentioning Lucius Malfoy was not a good idea. "I know the team captain of the Puddlemere's. They play well but they're rotten, the lot of them." 

"I knew it!" Ron exploded, startling Draco, but he covered his jump of surprise with a shrug. The two Gryffindor's fell into conversation again, but he still felt their eyes on him. 

Draco sneaked a glance at Hermione, who seemed to be avoiding looking at him. He wondered if she had felt it too, that hint of… something. Draco would have to analyze it later, but for now he tried to enjoy the fragile accord the three of them had come to.

+++

The final ten minutes of the carriage ride seemed to drag on forever. Harry and Ron argued back and forth over Quidditch, even allowing Malfoy to throw in the odd comment on the match—though Ron still refused to look at him when he did so, he did begrudgingly respond, seeming unable to help himself when his favourite team was the topic of conversation. As for herself, Hermione spent the remainder of the journey curled up on the seat, her legs tucked under her, staring resolutely out the window and watching the huge castle draw closer. Though she refused to look at him, she was very aware of the Slytherin boy’s presence behind her, his eyes on her back. 

There was something different about Draco Malfoy this year. It wasn’t exactly easy to put into words, she thought to herself, but there was… something. Being unable to define the thing she felt unnerved her. Hermione was used to knowing everything—well, almost everything—and the things she didn’t know she could look up in the library. But this, well, it wasn’t something she felt she’d be able to find in a book. 

It wasn’t that Malfoy was cowed. Just because Voldemort was gone and the Death Eaters were once again a taboo subject, it didn’t mean that he’d lost all his swagger—that seemed to be ingrained in the very way he held himself. It was more that he seemed to be trying to channel his energy into something else. He hadn’t picked a fight with either of the other boys, or made a snide comment about her being muggleborn—let alone a ‘mudblood’—which was a small miracle in itself. He’d been, for Malfoy, almost nice. 

She became aware then that the carriage had stopped moving, and uncurled her petite body from the bench, turning toward the door. Ron’s lanky form was ducking out of the carriage door, Harry bent over behind him, ready to follow, their weight jostling the carriage a bit as they jumped down. Malfoy was still sitting on the far side of the bench, waiting for his turn to exit, and when he noticed her getting up he moved back slightly, gesturing at the door with one elegant, long-fingered hand. “After you, Granger. Don’t want to keep the rest of the Golden Trio waiting, do you?” 

The comment was probably meant to come off as sarcastic, but there just didn’t seem to be much effort put into the words, Hermione thought. With a muttered, “Um, thanks,” she awkwardly scurried past Malfoy’s piercing eyes and out into the dusky air, leaving her satchel forgotten on the seat behind her. 

The evening was cool, a brisk wind seeming to sear straight through her cloak while tossing her long, dark brown curls into her face. Hermione pushed her hair impatiently out of her eyes as she hurried to catch up with her friends. She could hear Ron moaning longingly about the coming feast and how it was the only thing that made up for missing Mrs. Weasley’s cooking while they were at school. Harry started in on how much he was looking forward to the new Quidditch season. He wasn’t team captain this year, since he’d left school to hunt horcruxes, but he, Ginny, and Ron had all received owls from the present captain assuring them of their old positions should they wish to return to the team as seeker, chaser and keeper—which they had spent a good deal of their summer owls to her reminiscing about. She felt a happy smile curve her lips as they made their way up the path to the front entrance, queuing at the grand front doors with hundreds of other students waiting to enter the castle. She was finally back where she belonged. 

The wind howled past once more and Hermione reached for her bag to pull out the long red and gold knit scarf she’d folded neatly inside for just such an occasion—though the days in September were still pleasantly warm and crisp, the nights could run cold. However, when she reached for the leather satchel she expected to find hanging at her hip, nothing was there. She glanced around the crowd of students milling around their small group, many turning to call greetings to her and the two boys, wondering if her bag had slipped off her shoulder accidentally and she hadn’t noticed. She was just wondering if she should make a dash back to the carriages and see if she’d left it on the seat when she spotted Malfoy striding along the side of the path. He was clearly visible due to the wide gap most of the other students afforded him as he walked, even his fellow Slytherins—identifiable by their own silver and green scarves that several of them had pulled on for the short walk up to the castle—cast him sideways looks as they passed. But this wasn’t what caught her attention; it was the fact that Malfoy had her missing bag slung over his shoulder alongside his own. 

“Go on up to the castle, Harry,” Hermione said quickly, not wanting the others to notice that Malfoy had her bag. She didn’t think he’d done anything to it, but she thought it better not to draw Ron’s notice either way. “Save me a seat at the feast. I forgot something in the carriage.” 

Harry hesitated. “Do you want us to go back with you?” He started to turn and Hermione quickly waved him off, noticing Ron starting to look over his shoulder too. 

“No, it’s fine,” she said hastily. “Ron’ll starve if you do. And you don’t want to miss the Sorting. I’ll be quicker if I go back alone.” 

Leaving her two best friends to continue on, Hermione turned back to the crowd of students pressing forward, and began to try and force her way in the opposite direction. As she drew nearer to where Malfoy was walking, he finally noticed her too, and came to a stop a few feet to the side of the crowd, to wait for her. By the time she reached him, Hermione felt nervous. Her stomach was fluttery and she found she wasn’t sure what to say to the boy staring down at her. She reached up and twisted a long curl of her hair around one finger, an action that she only fell into when she was at a complete loss for words.

+++

Upon arriving at Hogwarts Draco almost let out a relieved sigh. Listening to the two idiots before him gab on about Quidditch was starting to get under his skin. The sport held a special place in his heart after falling into hard times at home, what with Voldermort skulking the halls of the Manor. Sometimes Quidditch was his only refuge when the Dark Lord's mood turned more precarious. Draco would find the Daily Profit, tuck himself into one of the Manor's more remote rooms, and fall into the pages of the latest sports report. These moments were treasured but equally soured by the reason behind the need for them. He could feel the well of conflicting emotions surging up to struggle within him. And these two dunderheads weren't helping in the slightest. How could they know, anyway, that their current theme would cause him irritation? Not like it would matter. Draco doubted any of his feelings would be considered, whether he voiced his opinion or not. He was sure the lot would be surprised to find that he possessed any such emotions at all. Nevertheless the ride was finally over, and so ended the conversation on Quidditch. The two Gryffindor boys barely spared him a look as they pulled themselves out of the carriage. And before Granger! They probably took their cues from garden Trolls, thought Draco with a sniff as the two exited. 

He expected the same careful rebuff from Hermione, but when she moved to exit herself, her gaze turned to acknowledged him. His own polished upbringing kicked in. He raised his arm, hand gesturing for her to proceed him with a flair he'd gleaned from the many etiquette lessons drilled into him. "After you, Granger. Don't want to keep the rest of the Golden Trio waiting do you?" he said, reaching for the ways of the Malfoy he used to be in defence of those keen eyes of Granger's. But he could tell the words fell short of the Ice Prince of past. Her reply was brief, the inflection giving away her distress. Draco wanted to say more, but she was gone and he could hear her footsteps growing distant on the cobblestones. 

Draco allowed himself a sigh this time. He didn't know what it was that had sprung up between the two of them. Was he the only one feeling it? Or was Granger falling prey to the curious energy between them as well? Draco pulled on the cuff of his sleeve, smoothed a hand down the front of his robes, all in an attempt to regain himself once more. He’d slid his bag over his shoulder and pushed himself across the bench of the carriage to leave, when his hip collided with something beside him. He looked down and realized Hermione had left her bag behind in her haste to escape him. The corners of Draco's mouth quirked up; if this wasn't a sign that he was alone in the way he had felt for her, what was? He was sure he was making a fool himself, only working towards creeping Granger out. 

He grabbed the bag and stepped down and out of the carriage. The night was a brisk one despite the weather having been fair hours earlier. The sun hung low and orange to the left of the castle, obscured by thin sweeps of clouds. In a few minutes time the sky would give way to the moon and stars, casting them all in their soft, twinkling light. Draco didn't much like the darkness of night, too many bad memories of rituals and meetings in which the innocent were tortured, blood spilled. 

His eyes searched the crowd before him, but Hermione was gone. He placed her bag on his shoulder too, a shiver coursing through him as the chill of the night blew against him. He pulled out his wand and cast a Warming Charm around him, almost shivering again as the warmth swept in to replace the crisp air. Quickly he Disillusioned himself again and found his path a hard one in the rush of students. No one saw him and so no one thought to avoid treading on his fine leather shoes, or to move out of his way to avoid colliding with him. The older students paid no mind to the sensation of bumping into an object or entity unseen, familiar as they were with the oddities inhabiting the halls of Hogwarts. The younger years, however, squealed or shrieked when they collided with what they thought to be a person, only to turn and see nothing there. Draco found no small pleasure in this and would have continued on in this way, but his appreciation for not only his dignity, but for the refined craftsmanship of his shoes, forced him to step out of the rush and cancel his Charm.

He fell back into the tide still alert for any signs of Granger so that he could return her bag. Finally his eyes alighted on her as she approached him. He tipped his head at her and stepped aside so that they could meet without the flow of students jostling them. She reached him and again there were no words between them. She played with her hair almost nervously. Draco wondered at the feel of those strands. Were they soft and smooth as he imagined? 

He drew himself up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Need something Granger?" he challenged gently. He looked down at the two bags resting against his hip. "Oh, you've come back for your bag, haven't you." He removed said bag, noticing for the first time that it was heavy, no doubt laden with texts. It was another testament to the hidden strength of one Hermione Granger. Draco leaned in as if to share a secret, his mouth close to her ear. "Next time try not to be in such a rush. It was almost rude the way you charged out of there, as if I were one of Hagrid's ungainly beasts." He pulled back and handed her the bag. She took it quickly, their hands brushing in the exchange. Draco felt that spark again where their skin touched. He pushed the offending hand into his pocket. 

+++

Malfoy straightened to his full height as she slowed to a stop in front of him. Hermione watched as his lips curved into a faint smirk, a teasing challenge on his face rather than the customary sneer she had expected. This had the effect of making Malfoy’s normally severe features—sharp cheekbones, penetrating grey eyes, Roman nose—look softer, almost friendly. “Need something, Granger?” he asked, sounding faintly amused, a challenge underscoring his words as if he was waiting to see how she’d react to him having possession of her bag. “Oh, you’ve come back for your bag, haven’t you?” 

He shifted the satchel off his broad shoulder then, and held it out to her, his smirk still daring her to say something. As he held out the bag she couldn’t help noticing the way the muscles in his arm flexed, barely seeming to strain under the weight of the heavy satchel; Hermione needed both hands to lug her bag around, and it dug into her shoulder when she carried it on her body (though that was her own fault, she just couldn’t take the chance that she’d leave some important book in her trunk and need it for class, even now she’d over-packed, wanting to start her reading on the train early). Seeing Malfoy handle her bag with such ease sent a little shiver skittering down her spine—for a svelte boy (Could she still call him a boy? They were both 18 now, and, if she was honest with herself, Malfoy didn’t carry himself with the same sort of manner that other boys his age did…) he definitely possessed a hidden strength. 

While she was still struggling to form a semi-polite response to this question—at least thank him for not leaving her satchel in the carriage, which he really would have had every right to do—he suddenly leaned toward her, his lips abruptly right next to her ear, his hot breath tickling her neck. She went absolutely still, feeling her eyes grow wide with shock. 

“Next time try not to be in such a rush. It was almost rude the way you charged out of there, as if I were one of Hagrid's ungainly beasts.” 

He spoke in a low voice, as if sharing a secret, and he was so close to her that Hermione was sure none of the passing students could hear what he said. Standing there in the growing dark, there was something…well, if she had to put a word to it… almost seductive about Malfoy’s tone, and she could feel her cheeks blaze. What the hell was he playing at? Was he getting off on making fun of her in this way? Malfoy pulled back, the smirk on his lips more pronounced than ever as he arched a blond eyebrow at her, holding her bag in front of her face, waiting for her to take it. 

The arrogant git, she thought fiercely, trying to avoid looking at Malfoy as she reached up and snatched her bag from where it dangled from his right hand. Her fingers brushed against his and she yanked her bag quickly back toward herself, grunting as she took a stomachful of textbooks in her haste. Malfoy raised a second eyebrow at her, but said nothing—though it looked as if he were trying not to laugh. He slid his hands casually into the pockets of his robes, eyeing her. 

“Hagrid has an appreciation for the…well, exotic,” she snapped, irritated at the uncomfortable feeling that had settled over her, and trying to ignore it. “But that doesn’t mean his creatures are beastly.” 

“Are you saying I’m exotic, Granger?” Malfoy asked, his lips twitching, and she blinked at him in surprise. Was he teasing her? Or was he—no. She cut that thought off before it could form. This was Malfoy. He did not flirt with the likes of her. 

“I appreciate your returning my things,” she forced herself to say, hugging her satchel to her chest and staring down at it as she spoke. Malfoy’s hand had been warm and dry, and she was visited with a fleeting thought of what it might be like to have him take hold of her hand for a purpose that didn’t involve the transfer of school things. 

Now where had that thought come from? she wondered, feeling a jolt of shock race through her veins. This was Malfoy! Draco Malfoy. The most evil boy she’d ever known. The boy who’d tried his very best to kill or destroy everyone she held close! But that had been before the end of the War. Before he’d realized maybe he was on the wrong side. Ugh. Why was she so mixed up right now? 

“You didn't need to trouble yourself,” she added quickly, trying to drown out the chatter in her own head. “But, well, thank-you.” She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes, trying not to show how shaken she was by her inner thoughts. 

The smirk had faded from Malfoy’s lips as she rambled, and she found him watching her carefully, an unreadable look on his face. “No problem, Granger,” he said smoothly, no trace in his voice now of whatever it was she thought she might have heard before. There was a long pause, then Malfoy inclined his head in the direction of the Castle, and Hermione noticed that most of the students had made their way up the path and there were only a few stragglers hurrying up the steps. “We’d better get up to school,” he said, brushing past her and starting to stride up the path, his long legs carrying him quickly toward the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder after a few steps, almost as if he was expecting her to follow him, maybe even walk with him. 

Hermione cleared her throat, shaking her hair back out of her eyes as she tried to regain her composure. “Y-yes, of course,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath and starting to walk, keeping a few paces behind Malfoy. “Harry and Ron will be waiting for me.” A few paces ahead of her, she thought she saw Malfoy stiffen, but he recovered quickly and kept walking, and soon they were both crossing the threshold of Hogwarts, joining the handful of remaining students hurrying through the doors to the Great Hall.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Granger almost looked flustered at his bit of teasing. If only Draco could hear the thoughts whirling around in that head of hers. She put on a brave face as she looked at him and he could feel his smirk leaving him, blown away like leaves in the wind. Or maybe it was just he who was blown away. There was something to be said for the courage of a Gryffindor, Draco thought as he looked at her, waving away her gratitude. She must think so little of him to believe he would just leave her bag when he could so easily return it. Not that she had any real reason to believe otherwise. Besides, Draco would have missed the opportunity for such an… interesting exchange. True, the house elves would probably have retrieved it and returned the bag to her safely, but altruism had struck Draco and he had taken it up, along with her bag. 

“We'd better get up to the school,” he said, noticing that they were practically alone. He could only imagine the shades of red the Weasel would turn if he found out that Draco had been the reason for Granger's delay. The night was cool enough that dawdling could inspire a cold. Merlin forbid Draco was the cause of that too. It was nothing that a skillfully brewed Pepper-Up Potion couldn't cure, but Draco had doubts about the quality of potions kept in the infirmary. He personally had preferred going straight to Severus for his medicinal needs, but he doubted Granger had such easy access to the potions master, not even Severus Snape’s replacement—there were some perks to being in Slytherin after all. Lost in his wandering thoughts, it took a moment before Draco realized he was walking alone. He looked over his shoulder to see Granger still standing there, though she soon hurried after him. He noted that she chose not to walk abreast of him. 

"Harry and Ron will be waiting for me." 

The words rang in his head, his body tensing. In the next second he forced himself to be calm. It was a warning, Draco knew, that if he were up to anything funny, those two would be the first to notice her absence. He supposed he shouldn't let her cautiousness effect him, she was only being honest. But it did. Had he harmed her yet? He'd gone so far as to return her stupid bag, of all things. Something the old Draco would never have considered doing, not even under the threat of an Unforgivable. 

Well, maybe under the threat of an Unforgivable. 

"Don't worry Granger, I won't be whisking you off to any Death Eater reunions or whatever it is you three think I get up to these days,” he said as they entered the castle. The warmth of the building folded around them like a soft blanket. "You'll be safe with me. Besides," he turned to look at her again, mouth quirking softly to the right. "How will you help me ace my N.E.W.T.s if you're locked away?" he asked airily. He could almost hear her shock, it was so palpable. He slowed his pace as he continued. "Despite what everyone thinks of me, I would like to do more than live off the mountains of Malfoy galleons." He shrugged a slender shoulder. "I'm excellent at Charms work and would like to make a career of it. What better way to guarantee I get Os than to study with the resident—” He hesitated, almost saying 'the resident know-it-all'. "The resident intellect of Hogwarts,” he finished, his cultured manner of speaking adding a flourish to the title.

+++

Hermione stumbled as she and Malfoy crossed into the Great Hall and were assaulted with a deluge of noise and laughter coming from four long tables full of chattering students, many of whom hadn’t seen each other in months, if not longer. Overhead, the ceiling was a glittering canopy of stars—the enchanted roof of the hall was one of Hermione’s favourite things about Hogwarts after the vast Library—interspaced with floating candles. She’d turned sharply when Malfoy had murmured the words “You’ll be safe with me,” and had lost track of where her feet were. Next to her, Malfoy’s hand had shot out and caught her elbow, steadying her without seeming to think of it—though he withdrew his hand quickly once she’d caught her footing. Though Malfoy was still speaking, his voice pitched low so that she could hear him despite the din, Hermione barely took in the words he was saying.

You’ll be safe with me. He’d said the words so casually, though there was a hint of bitterness underlaying them, a sort of defensiveness, as if he was insulted that she might think he was still dangerous to be around. She studied Malfoy’s profile for a moment. There was still a slightly arrogant tilt to his chin, but there was something in his eyes that seemed to beg her not to view him as a threat. She wondered if he was one, or if she should give him a chance to make a fresh start. Still, seven years was a lot of time to undo…

“…the resident intellect of Hogwarts,” Malfoy was saying, and Hermione blinked, coming back to the present.

“You want to study with me?” she heard herself ask drily, a suspicious frown tugging her lips down as she narrowed her eyes at the boy beside her. “Aren’t you afraid spending time with a muggleborn will tarnish your image?”

Malfoy frowned at that. “I’m not afraid of anything, Granger,” he muttered, narrowing his own eyes at her. “You’re the one who seems too afraid to accept a compliment.” There was a pause, during which a straggling second year suddenly ran up behind them, pushing between the pair of them with a surprised look at their faces—they were both very well known, after all—before darting off to join the crowded Gryffindor table, casting a look over his shoulder as he found a seat on one of the long benches and turned to whisper to his friend. Several more heads turned to gape at them. It was time to move things along before they drew too much attention.

“Well,” Hermione said, thinking fast while she wished she were already sitting with Harry and Ron, not standing here having this surreal conversation with Draco Malfoy, “if you want me to tutor you I suppose I can make some time. I usually study in the library after supper. You can meet me there tomorrow if you’re serious about this.” She knew her tone said very clearly that she doubted that, and made sure the look she gave Malfoy indicated she’d jinx him six days from Sunday if this was all an elaborate setup for some devious prank, or worse.

“Perfect,” Malfoy said with a faint grin, seeming to enjoy her attempt to look threatening. “I’ll see you then. Though, Granger,” and the grin faded from his face as he looked indecisive about something for a second, then pushed on. “It might be a good idea not to tell Weasley and Potter about our…appointment.”

Hermione felt her frown deepen, and she was about to tell Malfoy off for trying to corner her away from her friends before three things came to mind. One: Madam Pince—somehow still alive despite being well over 90—still prowled the stacks; if Malfoy tried to jinx her the old librarian was sure to hear and kick him out. Two: Hermione herself was the brightest witch Hogwarts had seen in an age, she reminded herself. Even Malfoy himself had said something similar just now. She was the “resident intellect”, she probably knew more magic than he did, and should be able to hold her own if need be. And three: “You’ll be safe with me.” The phrase repeated itself in her head. Somehow, she wasn’t sure why, but she thought the words might be true. 

“Fine,” she said at last, knowing that the longer they talked the greater the chance that Harry, or worse, Ron, would notice her absence at their spot at the Gryffindor table and come see what the hold up was. She didn’t know why exactly, but she didn’t want either of the two boys to interfere with…whatever it was that had sprung up between her and Malfoy since they’d ridden in the carriage together. “I won’t tell them. But, Malfoy, you’d better not make me regret this.” And with that, she hurried off toward the Gryffindor table.

As she took her seat, Hermione waved off Harry’s questions about what had taken her so long, saved by the arrival of Professor McGonagall and a gaggle of terrified-looking first years. As the Sorting began, Hermione found herself scanning the great hall, not realizing who she was looking for until her eyes landed on Malfoy’s blond head across the room. He’d taken a seat at the Slytherin table as usual, and was talking with some boys Hermione recognized though she couldn’t recall their names. A few other students sitting near Malfoy cast glares at him as they muttered among themselves, and she wondered if they wished they could cast more than that. 

She recalled the way Michael had sneered at Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express. The students from other houses who had always hated Malfoy, and others like him, were starting to stand up to him. Though this had always been the case, even in her sixth year and below, it had never been such that Hermione had worried something drastic might come of the rivalries. But something told her that even though Voldemort had been defeated, that didn’t mean the old animosities were dead and buried. 

+++

The next day classes began again. The Gryffindors had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws. Hermione scanned her timetable and found that she didn't have any classes that day with the Slytherins. She spent most of the day feeling vaguely unsettled and wondering if she should have agreed to meet with Malfoy alone. She wished the Gryffindors had Charms that day so she could see Malfoy and get a read on him. Going into the library blind that evening unnerved her. Would he come? Or worse, would he show up with a pack of fellow Slytherins and try to catch her unawares? 

“Hermione, that’s the third time you’ve almost put your elbow in my pumpkin juice,” Harry’s voice cut into her tangled thoughts.

“W-what? Sorry, were you saying something?” she muttered distractedly to Harry, pushing the food on her plate around with her fork.

“Where are you today?” Harry asked, moving his goblet to safety. “You’ve been distracted all day. Lavender said you actually got an answer wrong in Ancient Runes.” 

Ron snorted with laughter and Hermione turned to glare at him. “Shut up, it happens to everyone.” 

“Not to you,” Ron said, shovelling shepherd’s pie into his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten something over the summer. Did you miss a book on the reading list?” 

“Oh honestly,” Hermione huffed, though Ron had given her the opening she needed. “As a matter of fact, there is a book I wanted to check out of the library. I think I’ll go after supper.” She turned to smile at the boys sitting across from her. “You’re welcome to join me. There’s nothing to distract us this year, so I expect nothing less than high marks from both of you, and getting a start on our homework early will help us all achieve Outstandings on our N.E.W.T.s in the spring.”

As she expected, both Harry and Ron suddenly found a multitude of excuses as to why they, regrettably, couldn’t join her in the library, mainly by citing their desire to get a jump on the Quidditch season by heading out to the pitch straight after they were done eating. 

“Fine, fail,” she said tranquilly, “I plan to get perfect grades this year, and Merlin help the soul who tries to distract me!” She eyed her best friends sternly and they exchanged an eye roll, though Hermione knew they’d both come begging on their knees to her at the first sign of a tough essay. Finished her meal, she excused herself and began to make her way to the library. 

+++

As if there was much of a reputation to tarnish Draco thought. Almost everyone wanted him dead, wished Potter had left him to burn alive in that fiendfyre years ago; and those who didn’t thought nothing of Draco at all. No, if anything, being seen with Granger would do some much needed damage control on what was left of his standing. He was a man with something to prove, an idea that was his to see to fruition. He had no mad men hovering over him to force his hand, or parents to cloud his judgement. He'd had some time to think over his past missteps and he'd come to the conclusion that from now on he alone would govern his actions. No, Draco wasn't afraid of taking chances. If anything, it was Granger whose perspective was skewed towards pessimism. He told her as much.

But she had agreed, to Draco's pleasant surprise. He supposed she wasn't as reluctant as he had thought. Taking chances for once seemed to be in Draco's favour. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was chancing towards something positive for once. Even as he thought this, Draco could feel eyes drifting their way. They were drawing attention. The other two thirds of the Trio were still unaware of the two of them though, which brought an idea to Draco. "It might not be a good idea to tell Weasley and Potter about our… appointment." 

He watched as she puzzled through it, probably ticking off every pro and con of a secret meeting with one Draco Malfoy. He realized that such a proposal would raise doubts in anyone, especially if it were suggested by him, but Granger rallied herself to the cause. Again she acquiesced, her voice hard as she turned away from him. He allowed himself an instant to watch her leave, her steps quick and purposeful as she made her way to her table. The fire in that woman could set the whole castle ablaze, he thought with the smallest of smiles as he turned to make his way to his own table. He found an empty spot next to a group of seventh years who seemed to hate him slightly less than the rest. 

"I'm surprised they let you come back here Malfoy," one of them remarked, an eyebrow quirked. 

Draco looked at the boy drolly. "Despite it's flaws, Hogwarts knows talent when it sees it." 

They found his flippancy amusing, exchanging chuckles with one another. "Everything feels different, but you remain the same old Draco." 

Draco raised one bony finger in the air, drawing their attention. "That is completely untrue," he said, his mouth pulled down in a slight frown. They leaned in, hanging on to his every word as if starved for a bit of gossip. "I've cut my hair, can't you tell?" 

The tension released, expelled with their laughter. Draco held himself as poised as ever but let his mirth show through a smirk. Still he could feel the others around him bristle, probably wondering where Draco got off actually enjoying himself when the rest of them were so miserable. Their glares burned him but he ignored them, instead focusing on the song of the Sorting Hat as it rang through the Great Hall. 

+++ 

The following day dawned clear and bright, a direct contrast to Draco's mood. Classes had gotten off to a rotten start. Draco had been been hexed and jinxed so many times that he had taken to casting a shielding charm as he walked the halls. The drain on his magic only further stretched his patience and he was beginning to rethink his positive approach. He knew that all it would take was a resurrection of the cold, waspish boy he used to be to set everyone right, but that would only further prove that they were right to bully him. 

He thought he would be safe in lessons with just Slytherin's but they proved to be just as bad, if not worse, than any double lessons he had. Exhausted, Draco had let down his protective shield to take notes and at least try to pay attention, only to find he was stuck fast to his seat. When he'd gotten up to turn in his notes, a spelled copy tucked away in his bag, his legs had suddenly grown unable to support him and he collapsed in an isle on the way to the front of the class. He could still hear the cruel way his peers snickered at him as he cancelled the jinx and gathered his scattered parchments. 

So it was with a foul mood that Draco entered the Library that evening after dinner. He'd barely touched his food, fearing that it had been doused with a potion to cause warts or spontaneous vomiting, or some other uninspired symptom. He wouldn't put it past them. Students parted before him sensing his heated disposition. He approached the front desk, his usual reluctance to initiate an exchange with Madam Pince gone in the face of his annoyance. 

"The usual," he practically snarled at the decrepit witch. 

"I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy, but your usual spot is occupied,” she intoned, unimpressed with his temper. 

Draco scowled. "You didn't even check!" he seethed. "I can't imagine what sorry excuse for a wizard would be studying this early in the year, anyway." 

Madam Pince crossed one bewrinkled arm over the other with all the haste of a sloth. "And yet, here you stand." A breezed ruffled the papers on her desk, Draco's magic flaring at her jibe. "Tsk, tsk,” Madam Pince tilted her head to gaze reprovingly over her glasses at Draco. "If you're trying to persuade me, you're going about it the wrong way." 

Draco closed his eyes, his expression clearing of his previous ire. When he looked at her again his face was carefully arranged in a picture of polite aloofness. "Madam Pince, you're looking younger today. Say, have you been reading those Witch Weekly's? I heard they have a new Wrinkle-Free potion that is rumoured to work wonders. Not that you need it, you're looking not a day over 80." 

“Malfoy—" Madam Pince said warningly. 

"Anyway," He waved a hand. "You wouldn't happen to have an opening in, say, my favourite study spot would you?" 

Madam Pince glared at him but lifted a hand, a card shimmering into existence between her fingers. "If only to get you out of my sight,” she said, and held the card out toward him. Just as he was reaching for it she snatched it away, leaning forward with a sharpness in her eye that made Draco swallow. "I'm watching you, Draco Malfoy,” she said warningly, and let him take the card. 

“Noted," Draco grumbled, turning away from her. He paused before he'd gotten too far and threw over his shoulder, “Oh, and if you see Granger come in, send her my way, would you?" 

Draco finally reached his favourite study spot, a secluded set of tables that sat in front of a stunning view of the Hogwarts grounds. He slid into a chair and exhaled with force into his hands. He smoothed his hands over his face, and on through his hair to let them rest on his neck, where he massaged a knot of tension he felt growing there. The day had been long but Draco still had this session to get through with Granger. 

He heard footsteps approaching and the subject of his thoughts appeared. He sat up, hands sliding into his lap as she nodded at him. "Malfoy," she greeted Draco as she reached the table. Draco stood and stepped around to pull out her chair for her, the movements second nature. She sat with some surprise but it quickly vanished as Draco slid the chair in for her. 

"Granger," he replied politely and took his own seat. "I never got a chance to say thank you for meeting with me,” he said wryly, remembering the swiftness of her retreat the previous night.

+++

Hermione entered the library just in time to see Malfoy disappear around the corner of a tall bookshelf. Wow, he’s right on time, she thought to herself, slightly surprised. Though they’d never actually discussed exactly when after super they were supposed to meet, she’d more than half expected him not to show up at all. She turned to the desk to get a card from Madam Pince, and found the ancient librarian glaring after Malfoy’s retreating back so intensely that Hermione wondered if she was trying to curse him. 

She cleared her throat delicately. “Good evening, Madam Pince.” 

The librarian turned to face Hermione, the glare on her face softening a fraction at the sight of one of her favourite students. “Miss Granger,” she greeted, flickering a look back in the direction Malfoy had gone. “It’s always pleasing to know that at least one student in this school knows how to treat a space of learning with quiet decorum.” 

Hermione smiled politely. Despite her harsh demeanour, she quite liked Madam Pince. At least here was a woman who treated books with the same sort of reverent respect that Hermione herself did. “I know it’s early in the year, but I wanted to get a head start on my homework. Also,” she cleared her throat a little awkwardly, unsure of the reaction she would get with her next words, “I’m supposed to, um, tutor Draco Malfoy. Was that him I saw just now?” 

Madam Pince’s eyes narrowed. She looked as if she was torn between encouraging her favourite charge and lecturing her. “Yes, that was the Malfoy boy,” she said at last. “He was as smart mouthed as usual.” She glanced over at the place Malfoy had been once more, then back to Hermione. “You’re a bright young witch, Miss Granger, just you be careful getting mixed up with that sort.” 

Hermione shifted her bag on her shoulder. It was really quite heavy and she was anxious to meet up with Malfoy so she could set it down. “Um, right. I’ll be careful. Did he happen to say where he was going?” The Hogwarts library was huge, full of long aisles of books, clusters of tables set aside in nooks with the odd fireplace for atmosphere as much as warmth, and tall, winged armchairs that were perfect to curl up in with a good book. Hermione loved the library, and she hoped that meeting Malfoy here wouldn’t tarnish her memories of the place in the future. 

Madam Pince pointed a long, bony finger toward the west wing of the library. “Mr. Malfoy has a particular fondness for a study area in the west corner,” she said, sounding disapproving, but before Hermione could ask any more questions, the librarian swept away to a back room, leaving her standing alone at the desk. 

She stood for a moment beside the desk, tucking her library pass into her robes and rallying herself for her meeting with Malfoy. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the library that evening, which was common enough in her experience. There were very few students who came to study on the first few days of the new term—aside from Hermione Granger. She loved being in the library by herself though, there was just something relaxing about being surrounded by thousands of books, the only sounds the gently crackling flames coming from one of the fireplaces, or the quiet rustle as she turned a page. Finally, she took a deep breath and made her way off in the direction Madam Pince had indicated. 

It didn’t take her long to find him, being only a few minutes behind Malfoy’s arrival at the library himself. Hermione was just stepping around the end of a long aisle of books to scan a cozy study area next to a huge window, when she heard a heavy sigh. Curious, she stepped out of the shadowed aisle and into the small common area, her brown eyes scanning the table and chairs for the source of the noise. There was a tall figure slumped in one of the wooden chairs at the four-person study table. He bent his head forward, rubbing his hands over his face, then up through his hair and down to his neck, where he worked long fingers against the muscles there. Hermione stood watching him for a moment. He looked tired, as if the day had been far longer for him than for most. Not having seen Malfoy in classes meant she had no idea how his presence had been received by the general populous of Hogwarts. The train incident was fairly routine, though reversed as to recent years: Malfoy now on the receiving end of taunts. She wondered if he’d had trouble in his own classes. 

She must have made a noise then, because Malfoy’s head lifted, his hands falling away from his neck as he turned to look at her. Feeling self-conscious, Hermione lifted her chin and crossed the empty space between the bookshelves and the table by the window, setting her bag down on the glossy surface with a curt nod at Malfoy. “Malfoy,” she said politely, keeping her tone businesslike. 

Malfoy pushed his chair back then, unfolding his tall form and getting to his feet, reaching smoothly for the chair next to where Hermione stood. She blinked at him for a few seconds, startled at this… well, genteel gesture. After a moment she sat down, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He returned to his own seat as if he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Granger,” she heard him say, as he settled himself into his chair, ”I never got a chance to say thank you for meeting with me.” 

The setting sun poured through the large window next to the table Malfoy had chosen, setting his blond hair ablaze with gilded light and accenting his sharp cheekbones. Sitting across from him, Hermione stared, feeling faintly entranced. When he wasn’t sneering at her, Draco Malfoy was, her heart gave a queer beat in her chest as the thought flitted across her mind, actually rather handsome. The thought was so shocking to her that Hermione found herself staring for a moment too long, finally realizing she was gaping like an idiot when Malfoy’s eyes narrowed the faintest bit. 

“W-what? Oh. It’s no problem. Though I have to admit, I didn’t really expect you to show up. Usually I’m the only one here for the first week or two of term.” 

A lazy smile unfurled on Malfoy’s lips. “Is that so?” he asked, a curious look on his face as he studied her across the table. “So am I now to learn the secrets behind Hogwarts’ leading lady? The books behind the bookworm?” 

Hermione stared at him. Malfoy’s voice was a casual drawl, but there was no malice in his tone. It sounded almost like he was teasing her. But not in a nasty way. This year had certainly returned a different Draco Malfoy to Hogwarts. Trying to return her confused thoughts back to the task at hand, Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a few books, carefully avoiding Malfoy’s gaze. “How was your first day back?” she asked offhandedly, to fill the silence as she searched in her bag for a quill.

+++

"Oh, it was just rotten,” Draco admitted glibly, feigning disinterest in the subject. "If the students in this sorry school applied half their wits to their education as they spent finding ways to trip me in the hallways, the Wizarding World would improve remarkably,” he added, his voice growing more passionate with each word. 

His thoughts returned to the laughing students in his previous class and he felt his displeasure burgeoning again. It was with some force that he began to remove neat sheaves of marked parchment from his bag. Realizing that he was being uncharacteristically telling in his actions, Draco softened his movements, neatly tapping the gathered parchments against the table so that they fell into an orderly stack in his hands. 

"I understand why they act the way that they do," he said softly, his eyes staring blankly at the pages before him. "It's just--" his mouth tightened, and he shook his head sharply, just once, as if to dispel the pitying thoughts from his head. "How was your day Granger? I hope you had a better go of it than I." He looked up at her with an easy smile. Draco hoped it didn't look as forced as it felt. 

Maybe he was going crazy. It had only been one day and he felt just as torn as he had the last time he'd walked these halls. Draco wanted nothing more than to lead a normal life, but the world demanded something different. He felt he had to assume his old persona again, to fit in to what everyone expected of him. It would almost be easier to do so than to fight against the expectations of those around him. He was hardly given a chance to prove that he could be something more than a thug wishing harm on others. But when Draco remembered how those last few years had felt, how he had struggled to maintain his facade of cool, distanced snobbery, he felt his determination take hold yet again. What was the use of having people around you who only stayed because they were afraid to leave? When he had needed someone to guide him in the right direction, no one had been there. Except Dumbledore, in those last moments of his life. The old man was the only one who saw the struggle inside him... 

Merlin, but his thoughts were wandering. Granger had been speaking but he had heard none of it. "That's good." He said, hoping his response was appropriate to whatever she had just said. He collected himself before he spoke again. "I suppose you're wondering what sort of tutoring I might need." He lifted the hand with the parchments in them, waving them gently in the air. "I actually have a bit of a... thing I'm working on. A project, if you will." 

"Go on," Hermione encouraged, nodding with what seemed to be genuine interest. 

"Right," He laid the parchments out and turned them towards her. "We all have to take the NEWTs to pass our seventh year, as you know. But we're also offered an opportunity during our exams to showcase any specific talents we may have by completing a presentation of sorts. This presentation may allow those who show potential to gain access to an apprenticeship. This," Draco said, gesturing to the papers laid before her, "Is my presentation. In short, it’s a very rough draft of a rather complicated containment Charm." He pointed to the first three pages. "These illustrate a rudimentary foundation for a charm that has a potential to trap and contain dark magics." He looked up at her, his eyes alive with excitement. "You've read about the trouble the Ministry has been having with dark magic starting to spread to neighbouring Wizarding and Muggle areas from the places Voldemort inhabited often, and performed dark rituals?" He continued without waiting for her to answer, eager to continue his explanation before she could critic it. 

"Those are the places this charm is made for. Instead of sending packs of Aurors all over Britain to contain these spots of dark magic, my spell could be set and left alone. The spell would use a combination of gathering, containment and converting spells to not only collect the dark magic, but possibly convert it to something resembling the magic found naturally in the earth itself. There's also the possibility of using the converted magic for other spell work as needed. But even if that bit of the charm doesn't work, the foundation of the spell itself--its portability, its open network--would allow for complex spell work to be condensed in an easy to use string of magic to be implemented with ease. 

"It would only need minimal upkeep. Theoretically speaking, of course. I have no idea if any of this is plausible. That's where you come in." He nodded his head towards her. "With you checking me every step of the way, I'm sure we could get this spell off of the ground and working like...well, like a charm." He finished, reclining back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk. "I know you'll have loads of work already on your plate, but if you're willing to aid me in this, it could help out a lot of people." His smirk turned impish. "Isn't that what you lot are famous for?" 

Draco knew he'd just spieled a lot of information in a short amount of time, but this project aroused a passion in him that he'd seldom felt before. When Draco had first caught wind of the effects of Voldermort's careless actions, how the magic warped reality, or caused those exposed to it to have their magic change in odd, sometimes irreversible ways, he'd felt for them. He knew how such magics could change a place, even people. He only had to look at his father and the state of the Manor and its odd quirks to understand what those people were going through. He felt an obligation to help them. He'd tried to configure such a charm as he had explained briefly to Granger, at his own residence, but the task had simply been too much for Draco to handle on his own. He'd failed over and over. But with Granger's help... 

"I know you'll have to look through it fully before you can commit, but what do you think?" Draco suddenly felt strangely vulnerable. He had just laid bare to her an idea that was close to his heart, a possibility at helping others and... and maybe even a chance at restitution. She could tear apart his dream like so much paper if she was so inclined. He waited for her response, his breath caught in his chest in anticipation. 

+++

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy, a little startled at his blunt response. She’d been expecting him to answer her airily, give some glossed over version of how redundant his classes were considering the life experience they’d all gained in recent years. She had not expected him to admit to having been bullied—least of all to her, one of his favourite targets in the past—she’d never forget the misguided jinx that had caused her teeth to grow beaver-like in her fourth year, and the laughter that had induced. A part of her felt that his treatment was justified, but as Hermione watched Draco mutter darkly about the injustices of his day while yanking a stack of parchment out of his bag, she felt sympathetic. She’d always hated to see others pushed around, and despite his many faults, the boy across from her did deserve a chance to try and turn his life around. 

“I understand why they act the way that do,” he said suddenly, his voice having become very quiet, and Hermione felt another pang in her chest. “It’s just…” She became aware that she was holding her breath, waiting for the end of that sentence, but Malfoy seemed to jerk out of his thoughts, shaking off whatever melancholy had come over him. “How was your day, Granger? I hope you had a better go of it than I.” The smile he hitched onto his face with these words was an approximation of his usual lazy, arrogant grin, but she could see past it. 

“Oh it was really good,” she made herself say, though falling into conversation about her day at school had been a good choice of topic for Malfoy to choose. Hermione loved Hogwarts, and going to class every day was exciting and challenging. She said as much to Malfoy, giving him a brief run down of the new subjects she was taking. He listened carefully, actually seeming interested in what she was saying, something Harry and Ron never did. It wasn’t that her best friends didn't care about what she had to say, it was just that, despite everything, they just didn’t care as much about studying and learning as she did. It was supremely surreal to her to find that Draco Malfoy wanted to know about her day, and not to break in with sarcastic or belittling comments while she talked. 

“That’s good,” Malfoy said, sounding a little distracted as Hermione finished up her summery of her Herbology lesson. Hermione flushed a little, realizing that she’d been going on for at least ten minutes, though Malfoy hadn’t cut in once. Tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, she busied herself arranging her parchment, quill, and ink on the wide table top. Across from her, Malfoy seemed to be gearing himself up to say something. “I suppose you're wondering what sort of tutoring I might need.” He held up his sheaf of parchments and gave them a little wave in the air between them. “I actually have a bit of a... thing I'm working on…” 

He talked for at least ten minutes himself then, and a strange lightness came over his features as he rattled off a description of a complicated Charm he’d been working on. She watched as passion sparked in Malfoy’s grey eyes, his voice growing excited as he explained the idea he’d been mulling over for months. “…isn’t that what you lot are famous for?” he finally finished, looking over at her with a faint smirk on his lips, though he held his body very still, as if waiting for her judgment. 

Hermione blinked, feeling as if she’d been hit with a stunning spell. Malfoy’s idea was good. It was really good. If it were properly implemented it would be revolutionary. And he wanted her to help with it. She felt shocked that Malfoy had been the one to come up with this plan, but pleased that he’d thought she was worth the time and energy to give her input. No, not just pleased, honoured. If—no, when—this Charm was finalized, it could be life-changing, and Hermione was determined to give her very best to this project, no matter what anyone else might think of her partner, least of all herself. 

She must have taken a few seconds too long to sort out her thoughts on the idea though, because Malfoy’s excitement faded a little as he stared over at her. His voice was more tempered when he spoke next, though his eyes looked hopeful. “I know you'll have to look through it fully before you can commit, but what do you think?” 

“I…I…” 

For a moment she was speechless, unsure how to express her own excited feelings. The wizarding world had been so damaged by Voldemort and his followers that his death, and the consequent jailing of most of the witches and wizards who’d aided him, hadn’t done much to undo the chaos they’d started. Hermione knew that Ron, and especially Harry, were enjoying a well deserved break from leading the charge against the Dark Lord, but Hermione had been yearning to help aid the rebuilding of wizarding society ever since Voldemort had died. She’d felt lost though, unsure how to start, and had finally decided to finish her schooling first so that she’d have learned all she could before she began. But now, here was Malfoy of all people, describing a Charm that could do so much good it was staggering. 

“I think your idea is amazing,” she finally whispered, and watched as Malfoy straightened in his chair, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. With slightly trembling fingers, she reached across the table and slid the top piece of parchment toward herself so that she could scan the rows of neat, slanting script and delicately drawn diagrams. “Did you really come up with this all on your own?” 

“Well you’d have a lot of time to think too, if your parents had defected from the Dark Lord at the last second and found themselves shunned by the only half of wizarding society that would still have anything to do with them.” The words were flip, but Hermione heard the hint of loneliness behind them, and shot a sharp look at Malfoy. That was another word she’d never associated with Draco Malfoy. She’d always assumed that he’d held himself above such mundane things as worrying about popularity. Then again, a lot of his ‘friends’ at school had been either simpering or plain stupid, so maybe he didn’t miss it as much as she might think. Or maybe he was rethinking his choices of companions. That thought jolted her. Was Malfoy trying to initiate a friendship between himself and her? Did she want him to? 

“So,” Malfoy cleared his throat and pressed on, his eyes holding hers, and causing Hermione to catch her breath at the intense look on his face. “Would you be interested in working together on this project with me? And presenting it together during our NEWTS in the summer? It would be an impressive project if we were able to get it to work, and, well, I’ve been watching you over the years, and you have the sort of determination and skill that I haven’t seen in any other witch. Or wizard for that matter.” 

Was it her imagination or had Malfoy’s cheeks flushed the palest shade of pink as he finished this formal proclamation? Her first thought was that he was embarrassed at having to ask for her help, but she shelved that notion immediately. Malfoy wasn’t the sort of person who said things he didn’t mean—whether they were hurtful or helpful, he had always been honest. And his words just now had caused a faint flush to creep over Hermione’s own face. There was something about the way he’d admitted to watching her. It hadn’t come over as creepy, though she knew it probably should. It was more an admission that Malfoy had noticed she worked hard and didn't give up. It was honestly one of the most flattering things he could have said to her, and somehow she didn’t doubt his sincerity as he did so. 

“Yes,” she heard herself say, and had the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. So, despite his passionate speech he hadn’t been sure of her acceptance after all. Well, his idea was a good one, a brilliant one even, and Hermione wanted to be part of it. “You’ve come up with something that could change the world.” She stared at him, her gaze far away as she ran through scenarios in which Malfoy’s Containment Charm could be used. “You’re really rather brilliant, aren’t you?” She arched a sardonic eyebrow at him and was rewarded with Malfoy’s lazy smirk. 

“Took you long enough to notice, Granger.” he said in reply, but he sounded pleased. As Malfoy pushed the rest of his parchments toward her, encouraging her to read them over carefully, Hermione felt an odd sensation settle over her. It wasn’t quite friendship, this thing between them, but it wasn’t the old tense hostility she had always wrapped herself in whenever she’d seen Malfoy in the past. Whatever it was, she couldn’t look at Draco Malfoy the same way any more. There was more to him than a good little solider boy who did what he was told by his commanders. Here was a boy who had ambition and drive, two things Slytherins were known for, and two things which no longer held a negative connotation when applied to the boy in the chair next to her.

+++

Draco saw that his idea interested her. More than interested her, she was certainly taken by it. Had he thought of it on his own? Of course he had. Who would have aided him in this venture? His parents? No, they were too busy licking their wounds to spare Draco and his precarious future any mind. Goyle was still mourning the loss of Crabbe. He blamed Draco for Crabbe's death and had ignored all of Draco's attempt at contact. Blaise had returned to Hogwarts but had also been uninterested with keeping up with Draco over the summer. Pansy was much the same, choosing to keep to herself and, sometime, Blaise. That left him with no one to share his plans with. 

"So," He said, his eyes locking with hers over the table. "Would you be interested in working together on this project with me?" He went on to say how the success of this project would look good for them, and how he had noticed how Granger excelled in her schoolwork. He knew she was capable if she would just give this, him, a chance. Still he found he was surprise when she agreed. She'd even called him brilliant! His heart sped up with a jolt in his chest at the praise. It was a wonder how good it felt to be recognized, even by Granger. He suppressed the urge to preen, though he wouldn't have been Draco if he hadn't said, "Took you long enough to notice, Granger."

Draco could feel the start of a new chapter beginning in his life. It had taken a lot of Malfoy's to drag their name through the muck, but maybe it would take just one devilishly handsome and brilliant Malfoy to bring honor to their lineage. He never would have thought in a million years that he would be grateful for the downfall of his house, but the experience had wiped his slate clean in a way that he never could have achieved, not with Lucius Malfoy reigning. Draco would pick up where his father failed and bring the Malfoys into a new age. And it would all begin with this spell. With Granger's help, of course. 

They read through the papers together, Draco pointing out the loose ends of his spell, where he had lacked the magic to trigger the spell, or had hit a wall as to how to set off a chain of spells. It was convoluted, he had warned her, but it was possible.

"And here," Draco was saying as he pointed to one of the diagrams, a circular figure where he had replaced the names of spells with short hand as they appeared in spheres around the circle, "You can see where I've left the area blank." He tapped his wand in the blank sphere where a spell should be, and a list of spells blossomed onto the parchment, stacked in a neat list beneath the sphere.

 

"These are spells I've tried that would contain magic, but none of them seem to work when faced with dark magic. They are also rather weak and would only hold the amount of magic associated with simple spells like Aguamenti or Ascendio, but would strain under the magic required of, say, Bombardio."

Granger leaned forward, biting her lip as she looked over the list. "Have you tried adding in a sub-sphere of spells attached to the main sphere? The sub-sphere could act as a power reservoir to increase the effectiveness of the main sphere." 

Draco had not thought of this. He sat back in his seat, in awe at the sheer astuteness of the idea. It was simple and yet it would solve an issue he had spent many hours puzzling over that summer. "The only problem with that idea," Draco said, his voice pitched low as he thought it over, "Is that the sub sphere would require a very powerful caster to fill the reservoir--"

"Or," Granger cut in, looking up from the diagram, "You mentioned something about converting the dark magic, didn't you? If we could figure that out, we could funnel the transformed magic into these subspheres. The spell could fuel itself."

Draco nodded, his reflections following along the same path as hers. "Meaning we would only need enough initial power reserved in the sub sphere until the conversion spell could do its job." He looked up at her with a new appreciation. "Granger, I'm starting to think that your talents are wasted here. At Hogwarts, I mean. I'm sure with your pedigree, what with you vanquishing Dark Lords and the like, you could have skipped returning to Hogwarts altogether." He frowned then, head tilted slightly as he looked at her. "Why did you come back?" He was genuinely curious. He knew that the same could not be said for himself. If he wished to have any success outside the walls of the school he would have to show that he had earned his knowledge. A certificate of completion from Hogwarts couldn't be refuted, no matter his past transgressions. With his father no longer playing a dominate role in the goings on at the school, no one could say that Draco had somehow paid his way.

He knew that Granger would be welcomed with open arms into any field she chose, even if she wasn't an amazing Witch, which she was. Draco paused. Had he just thought of Hermione Granger as amazing? It was true that she was unrivalled in many aspects but did that warrant such high acclaim from Draco? He thought about how much they'd accomplished in just this short session and had to admit that yes, she did deserve Draco's praise.


	3. Chapter 3

“Why did you come back?” 

Hermione lifted her head from where she’d been bending over one of Malfoy’s diagrams and looked over at him. The question was innocent enough, but there was true curiosity in it. For a minute she mulled it over, trying to work out an honest answer. What Malfoy had said was true enough, she had enough prestige from both her former studies, and her more recent help in defeating Voldemort, that she really didn’t have to worry about getting a job. In fact, since she’d turned 17 she’d begun receiving weekly owls from different organizations wanting to recruit her. And yet she hadn’t looked any of them up after the War was over. Maybe it was the perfectionist in her, or maybe it was just that she wasn’t quite ready to face the wizarding world outside of school on her own just yet, but the urge to complete her studies at Hogwarts had only intensified the longer she stayed away. 

“I…well…” 

Hermione bit her lip, considering her words. Harry and Ron, not to mention her parents, had all expected her to return to school. “There’s no way you’d give up a Hogwarts diploma,” Ron had said, elbowing her good-naturedly that summer, as they’d discussed the coming school year at the Burrow. “You’ve been talking about ways to display that bit of parchment in your office since first year!” Glancing sideways, she found Malfoy watching her carefully, his face curious but controlled. 

“I know it might seem silly, what with all the things I’ve done in the past few years, but, well, it’s just normal. It’s bit of saneness in a world that has been so chaotic, practically since my first day at school. I just want this one thing, this bit of parchment that says ‘you made it through’.” 

She lifted her head from where she’d been staring down at the table, her fingers still clutching the quill she’d been using to make notes on the diagram Malfoy had drawn. A tiny jerky movement drew her attention from the corner of her eye and she glanced over at Malfoy. He’d moved his arm, his hand twitching in his lap, and for a split second she thought he might have been about to reach out and… And what? Pat her shoulder? Take her hand? The idea was ridiculous. Whatever he’d been about to do, he’d obviously thought better of it as his fingers curled into a fist in his lap and remained there. She looked away. 

“I understand.” 

The words were low, so quiet, that Hermione would have missed them if they hadn’t been completely alone. Even so, they were almost lost in the crackling of the fire in the grate behind Malfoy’s chair. The sky beyond the window next to the fireplace was black, the sun having completely set while they’d been so involved in their work. 

“Normalcy is a luxury not everyone can afford, isn’t it, Granger?” Malfoy was looking out the window, his gaze lost in the night. “It’s funny how much people take that for granted… So caught up in wanting to be noticed, to be seen with the ‘right’ people, doing the ‘popular’ thing, that they forget what a relief it can be to just… be.” 

Hermione stared at him. It was very unlike Malfoy to wax poetic. But, as she was learning the longer she spent time with him, there was a lot she apparently didn’t know about him. “Malfoy…” she began, and the sound of her voice seemed to startle him. He jerked his head around to look at her, and the firelight behind him threw his features into shadow. For a heartbeat they both stared at each other, then Malfoy cleared his throat and began to gather his papers together. 

“Ahem, it’s late. You should probably get back to Gryffindor Tower before Potter and Weasley send a search party out for you.” 

A little startled at Malfoy’s about-face, Hermione began to gather her own supplies back into her bag. “It’s alright, they never expect me back before eight—” As she was speaking the sound of a clock chime from somewhere in the library sounded. Both she and Malfoy glanced toward the ceiling, as if they could physically see the chimes in the air. 

….six….seven…eight… 

Their gazes met and Malfoy gave her a rueful smile. “‘The clock is running, time waits for no man…’or woman, I suppose.” 

Hermione blinked at him. “You’ve read Alice Earle? But she’s a muggle author!” 

Malfoy’s smile tipped up into a smirk. “It can’t be all curses and jinxes, Granger. Even the son of the most evil man in Britain—well, maybe the second most evil—needs some variety in his literary tastes.” Then, before she could say anything to that, he picked up his bag and started around the table. When he reached the aisle she’d come through at the the start of the evening, he paused and turned back. “Well, are you coming or not?” 

She glanced uncertainly at Malfoy, still finishing packing her bag. “Um, coming where?” 

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re making this Nice Guy thing a little difficult, Granger.” 

Hermione couldn’t help but stare, feeling very confused. Malfoy looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but refrained with a good deal of effort. 

“You said you go back to your dorm by eight, right?” Hermione nodded. 

“It’s eight o’clock.” She nodded slowly again. 

Malfoy gave her a look that made her wonder if he thought he’d over-estimated her intelligence. “So let’s go.” 

Finally she found her voice again. “Go?” 

“Your dorm, Granger,” Malfoy said, sounding a little irritated now. “You’ll have to lead the way though, because most Gryffindors aren’t that forthcoming to those from my House, and I don’t know where the Tower is located.” 

“Why do you want to come to Gryffindor Tower?” 

Malfoy looked like he sort of wanted to jinx her now. “Not for anything nefarious, Granger, so just stop whatever it is you’re thinking. I only wanted to walk you back. But,” and now he looked slightly unsure, “if you’d rather I didn’t…” 

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had to admit that she’d been thrown by Malfoy’s offer, though she was surprised to find that she also felt pleased by it. It was another, slightly-dated, attitude that she wasn’t used to—walking her back to her house—or dorm—after they’d spent time together. Just like the way Malfoy had pulled out her chair for her, or steadied her yesterday when she’d stumbled in the entrance to the Great Hall. He seemed to have been bred with more class than most boys she’d spent time with, even the one or two boys she’d had a few scattered dates with back home during the summers hadn’t acted like Malfoy did. Not that this had been a date. Just a study date. That is, just a study session. Just working on a project together. That was all. 

“Well, you did say you didn't think Harry and Ron should know we’re spending time together…” she started slowly, turning to pick up her bag from the table and settle it on her shoulder. 

“Right, of course,” she heard Malfoy say behind her, and his voice sounded distant now, cooler. Hermione turned back to face him quickly, suddenly struck with a desire to prolong the evening. 

“But they’re probably already inside the Tower anyway,” she amended, and was rewarded with what could almost be called a look of relief on the Slytherin boy’s face. Though that was crazy. This was Malfoy. “And it’s none of their business anyway,” Hemione concluded, joining Malfoy at the end of the shadowy aisle. “Let’s go.”

+++

Merlin, but Draco was a sap. One truthful answer from Granger and Draco found himself spilling his conscience all over the table. It wriggled, grotesque and vast between them, spreading until he could feel the weight of it press against him. Was he so desperate for attention that he would open up to the first person to show him the slightest bit of kindness? He was sure he had put Granger off. She stared at him, her eyes dissecting him, and probably finding him wanting. Her voice, soft and kind, brought his eyes around to hers and he shook off his dour mood, realizing that they had spent far too much time locked away in the dark isles of the library. Time had passed quickly for Draco as the two of them sat, heads bent over the parchments Draco had brought along. The clear evening had been replaced with an inky, starlit night, the fires roaring to life in their hearths as the hours ticked away. He knew Granger spent many hours studying here, but it had to be late, even for her. 

He told her as much as he packed away his things, standing once he was done. Again, Granger lagged behind as if she were glued to her chair. Draco's thoughts returned to his day, spent un-sticking himself from chairs. He knew how that felt. He doubted Hermione had fallen prey to such a jinx, and yet still she sat. Maybe she was taken aback by his revelation that yes, Draco had deigned to read the works of a Muggle author. Though, as Draco had perused it's pages, he had begun to suspect there was more to Alice Earle than American historians had known. How else could one explain the magnificence with which Earle had put words to paper? No Muggle could be capable of such prose. It was also the lore she wrote of. It held some truth to it, as much of Muggle lore did. Draco was fascinated at the lengths Muggles went to discount the existence of magic. Earle couldn't have been ignorant to its presence around her, that much Draco was sure of. 

"Are you coming?" he asked, when he turned to find her still sitting. She was at least packing her things away now. 

"Um, coming where?" Granger asked, her tone giving away her hesitancy. 

Draco, mildly exasperated, arched an eyebrow at her. Was she being intentionally obtuse? It certainly seemed that way as their verbal back-and-forth continued. Draco simply wanted to walk her back to her dorm, a gesture any Wizard worth his salt would do. And yet Granger seemed to find the gesture extraneous. Draco wondered at how those two Gryffindor idiots treated her. Not for the first time he was reminded of the glaring difference between Gryffindors and Slytherins; Draco would have the head of all of his Slytherins if he came upon a girl from his house walking the halls alone at night, especially when he had been head boy. It wouldn't have been just Draco they would have to answer to either, Severus certainly would have had something to say on the matter as well, his punishments for such behaviour famous among the students in their house. With the whole school set against Slytherins, Severus had found it important that inter-house unity be stronger than ever. That other Heads of House didn't strive for the same thing floored Draco. 

"Well, you did say you didn't think Harry and Ron should know we’re spending time together…" Hermione reminded him. She probably didn't mean for it to sound as rude as it did, but Draco took umbrage all the same. He realized what she was doing, she was trying let him down easy. Of course. Draco might view himself differently, but that wasn't true for Granger. He hadn't yet proved he could be trustworthy. He couldn't blame her, really, and what else should he have expected? Granger was nothing if not practical. She was the embodiment of practicality. For all she was sorted into Gryffindor, she had the mind of a Ravenclaw. 

They'd spent one evening together, their excited chatter bouncing between them, muted by the tall stacks of books that surrounded them, and Draco had all but forgotten the history between them. He'd let the thrill of the possibilities of the Charm wash away his worries. He remembered the way Granger had smiled at him, her hair falling into her face, only to be pushed back by slender fingers. Fingers that seemed almost made to turn the thin, delicate pages of books. Fingers that touched books with a reverence usually saved for a suitor. Their gazes had locked several times, Granger's brown eyes glittering and bright as they looked at Draco. For a second he could almost be fooled that their time spent together was...romantic, what with the fire casting a warm glow over them, the setting sun colouring the sky in rich, sultry brush strokes of oranges and reds. A picturesque view that had framed their table. 

But he had been a fool to forget that they were simply two students working together to accomplish an academic goal. Granger would only ever view Draco as a provider for another achievement on her ever-growing list. 

"Right, of course,” he said, all his earlier candidness gone. 

"But they’re probably already inside the Tower anyway," Granger added, and Draco's tense expression relaxed a fraction as she continued. "And it's none of their business anyway. Let's go." And she walked beside him as they made their way towards the front of the library. 

They walked in silence for a bit, Draco still reigning in his whirling emotions. He couldn't remember another person who could make him doubt himself so. Usually he was so reserved, able to keep his cool exterior in place in the face of any social interaction, awkward or no. But with Granger he floundered, finding himself wanting her approval whether he meant to or not. 

Realizing that the silence was starting to grow uncomfortable, Draco laughed softly, a thought occurring to him. "Who do you suppose would kill me first if they found out about what we were doing, Potter or Weasley?" He glanced over at her, delighting at the slow smile he could see just barely in the dimly lit aisle. "One would assume Weasley, as you two are an item--you two are an item, aren't you?" he asked. Last Draco had heard, the two were dating, or at least more friendly towards each other than usual. But of course Draco was severely out of the loop. Being a turncoat and the son of a Death Eater could do that to a person. "But Potter, I'm sure, sees himself as a protective older brother of sorts. His Gryffindor sensibilities would run amok if he felt your virtue was at stake." 

It only just occurred to Draco then that maybe it wasn't a good idea to one, mention getting into fights with Granger's friends, two, insult said friends, and three, say anything about Granger's virtue. But the whole evening had thrown Draco for a loop. He chalked the lack of his usual conversational finesse up to the hell of a day he'd had. 

"I hardly think they would outright attack you, Malfoy, not these days. But..." She let the word hang in the air and Draco understood her meaning. 

"It's best not to tempt fate, you're right,” he said with a brightness that seemed out of place in the conversation. He was just grateful for this small concession he'd been given by the powers that be. He'd have to face a lot this year, he knew, but at least he would have Granger to look forward to. Working with Granger, that is. Working with Granger on the charm. 

"Right," she said slowly, her eyes flickering up at him with the barest hint of confusion. 

That's right Draco, drive her away with your ramblings, he thought, and pressed his lips together to stop himself from spouting any more inane drivel.

+++

“Who do you suppose would kill me first if they found out about what we were doing, Potter or Weasley?” 

Hermione glanced up when Malfoy asked this question, his lips tipping up sardonically. He went on to answer himself, deciding that Ron was more likely to hex him, considering that she was dating him—they were dating, weren’t they? he’d asked, his voice conversational, but the question underscored with a certain sharpness, as if Malfoy wasn’t sure exactly, yet wanted her to confirm or deny this fact. He hadn’t given her time to respond to this, however, continuing on, his words coming out a little too fast, a little too nonchalant, as if, now he’d started talking, he wasn’t sure how to stop. Harry, he’d concluded, may curse him simply because he was fiercely protective of his friends. Perhaps her more than most—except for maybe Ron—considering how long they’d known each other. 

However, when Malfoy casually hinted that Harry’s reason for hexing him might have something to do with the pair of them getting a little more intimate than schoolmates, Hermione felt her cheeks flame. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the whole situation—as if she and Malfoy would end up snogging in a broom cupboard—or maybe it was the fact that hearing Malfoy speak of her ‘virtue’ at all brought to mind just how safe it had been the past few years. Sure, Hermione and Victor had had a brief fling in her fourth year, but nothing more romantic had come of that than a few stolen kisses and a handful of letters. And Ron… she shook her head, trying to put together a coherent sentence before her mind spiralled any further. 

“I hardly think they would outright attack you, Malfoy, not these days. But…” Hermione wasn’t sure how to end that sentence. Sure, Harry and Ron had managed not to curse Malfoy on the ride to Hogwarts, but for both boys…well, she wasn’t sure that enough time had passed for them to be more than passably civil to him when then crossed paths at school. She might have decided to give Malfoy a tentative chance—for the sake of this project, but for Harry and Ron, especially when it concerned her, she wasn’t altogether certain wands wouldn’t be drawn if they decided Malfoy was harassing her. 

“It’s best not to tempt fate, you’re right.” 

Hermione looked up sharply, but Malfoy had already turned away. He had straightened his shoulders, his gaze now straight ahead, not looking at her as they walked toward the marble staircase and began to climb. Malfoy’s tone had switched from ponderous mockery to something a little too determined to sound casual. She frowned at him, a little thrown by his abrupt change in attitude. And his words, for that matter. Just what did he mean by not ‘tempting fate’? They already were, just by agreeing to work on this project together. Not that they were doing anything wrong, she reminded herself, just unusual. It wasn’t unheard of for people from separate houses to work on projects together, especially if they were in the same class. Just because she and Malfoy weren’t exactly friends… 

“Riiiight….” she said slowly, making her way up the stairs, a step or two behind Malfoy. She wasn’t sure what else to say to that remark. 

They walked in silence for a while, and Hermione found herself watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eye as they reached the top of the stairs started down a long corridor. Since it was so early in the term most students were already in their dormitories, likely goofing around and trying to avoid thinking about the coming nights that would soon be filled with homework assignments and revision. Or, they might be like Harry and Ron, and avoid thinking about their scholastic responsibilities until the night before an exam and then try and cram everything from the past six weeks into twelve hours, foregoing sleep. Speaking of Harry and Ron, Malfoy had brought up a topic she had spent most of the summer trying to avoid. Ron, that is, not Harry. 

Harry was, as Malfoy had said, a great friend whom Hermione was very close to, maybe even had had a slight crush on when she was younger, but they had both grown out of that phase and had been as close as siblings for years now. Harry was very protective of her, despite the fact that Hermione knew more spells than he did—though Harry had always been more proficient at the patronus charm than she was, and he could definitely fly better than she could. She thought back to the carriage ride a few days ago, the way Harry had been quietly observing Malfoy. He’d been distantly polite, which was a huge thing for him, considering the horrible things Malfoy had done to him in the past, but it was more than that. Now that Malfoy had brought it up, she wondered what Harry really thought of the other boy; if he was willing to—maybe not bury the the hatchet, but at least set it down a reasonable distance away. However, if Harry got the idea that Malfoy was being…inappropriate? She felt herself blush and ducked her head so that her hair hid her face. This was Malfoy, she reminded herself sternly, and the only virtue he was likely to get anywhere near with her was testing her patience. 

Ron was another story. Malfoy was right about that too. Sort of. Hermione and Ron had been a couple for about six months after the War. Harry had been too blissfully wrapped up in spending time with Ginny though, that he hadn’t noticed that Hermione and Ron were virtually a couple of convenience. Ron had spent most of sixth year lip-locked with Lavender Brown, which had made Hermione infuriated in such a way that she had assumed she was actually jealous of the pair of them. Ron could be annoying, pig-headed, brash, and stubborn, but he had a good heart; so when they’d kissed in the chaos of the battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had been caught up in feelings and emotions that she hadn’t properly had time to process. The next few months had passed in a whirlwind. She’d spent half the summer with her parents, sending regular owls to both Harry and Ron, and half the summer at the Burrow. There Harry and Ginny had divided their time between sneaking off to be alone, and ‘canoodling’, as George had called it, in the living room (Mrs. Weasley had threatened to jinx both of them if she caught them in Ginny’s bedroom), and Hermione and Ron were left to their own devices. 

During the next four weeks she and Ron had alternated between arguing about returning to school and snogging in the orchard. It really wasn’t very different than how they’d always been, she pressing Ron to be more serious about his future, and Ron telling her to lighten up and learn to live in the moment. And kissing Ron had been nice; he wasn’t bad at it—apparently all that time he’d spent glued to Lavender’s face in sixth year had been good for something—but that’s all it was. Nice. Sweet. Comfortable. And that had been what had nagged at Hermione all summer long. Ron was nice. He was comfortable. He was familiar and safe. But—and she felt almost shallow for admitting it, even just to herself—she wanted more. Sometimes Hermione was tired of being the good one, the studious one, the reliable one. She wanted adventure, and excitement, and maybe even a little danger. 

So yes, she and Ron were still together, technically, she supposed. But the spark that had been there had long since dwindled, and Hermione wasn’t sure how to let Ron know that without destroying their friendship forever. And possibly hers and Harry’s friendship into the bargain, seeing as Harry and Ron had become friends before she and Harry had. 

The portrait of the Fat Lady came into view at last, and Hermione came to a stop outside it. She had put Malfoy off with a vague sort of answer to his musings, and wondered if he'd noticed, or even cared much beyond his own rambling curiosity. She shifted her bag and paused before speaking, not sure how to end their evening together. She’d come to the library with completely different expectations of Malfoy than she’d left with, and her only feelings right now were confusion and exhaustion. It had been a long and interesting night, that was for sure. 

Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly, and glanced up at Malfoy through her lashes, feeling almost bashful. This thought was alarming and Hermione couldn’t hold Malfoy’s gaze for more than a few seconds once the idea had occurred to her. It had been considerate of him to walk her back to the Tower, especially since it was such a long way from the Library, not to mention, from what Harry and Ron had told her in second year, a long way from his own dorm near the Dungeons. But Malfoy didn’t seem to have minded the extra distance, even if the last half of their walk back had been draped in awkward silence. Now he stood across from her, his bag over his shoulder and his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. 

“Well, thanks for walking me back,” she said into the growing silence, wondering why Malfoy wasn’t saying anything, nor was he looking inclined to leave. “It was...thoughtful.” She'd almost said 'chivalrous', though had bit back the word at the last second. That word implied that Malfoy was protecting her from something, which she might have found laughable before tonight--especially since the only people Hermione might have admitted to needing protection from were his fellow Slytherins. And besides, chivalry was a term associated with Gryffindors, Malfoy might have taken offence if she'd used the word in relation to him. 

And why was she suddenly worried about offending him anyway? Sure, they'd had a good conversation tonight, but could she really trust Malfoy's intentions beyond his own desire for a good NEWT grade? He was probably using her as much as she was using him. She was just using him, wasn't she? Somehow, deep inside, Hermione knew she didn't believe that. Not after talking with Malfoy for so many hours. Trying to distract herself, she reached up and wound a curl around one of her fingers, than just as quickly yanked her hand back, hating the way that nervous habit snuck up on her sometimes.

+++

The trip up to the Gryffindor dorms was largely uneventful, with only the occasional shifting staircase to trouble them. They walked together quietly, Draco taking in the carefree students that roamed the halls around them. It brought back to mind his earlier years when things seemed so simple. Draco had only to be spoiled and entitled, the rest of the world falling into place behind him, as he was raised to believe it should. It was only the resurrection of Voldemort that had changed all of that. He often wondered what kind of man he would have grown to be if life had stayed on the path Draco had expected of it. He probably would have been a small replica of his father, his attitudes unchecked by the trials of living through a war. Would he change the course of his life if he could? There had been so many losses, too many to count. Draco supposed the peace they had achieved was all worth it, in the end. Though maybe, if both sides hadn't been caught up in their own pride and had actually listened to each other, things wouldn't have turned for the worse. 

No, Draco knew that to be untrue. An idea as insidious as blood purity, whatever that meant, could only end in disaster. It could only be disproven by ending as ugly as it had. Draco had certainly learned his lesson. 

Granger led them to a halt in front of a large painting with an equally large woman occupying it. The painted woman feigned sleep. Draco knew she was awake because she'd been snogging someone just moments before their arrival. She'd shoved whoever it had been roughly out of her frame before slumping against a pillar, her snores loud and exaggerated. Draco glanced at her with a smirk, amused at her antics. Granger faced him, and he turned to look at her. She peered up at him, her eyes never meeting his for long, almost as if she were feeling shy. Granger? Shy? He found the thought laughable. She was probably just uncertain again about leading Draco to the doorstep of the Gryffindor Dorms. He waited, thinking maybe there was still more distance to cover before they reached the common rooms, but then she spoke, thanking him for accompanying her. 

Ah, so they had arrived. Draco had expected a more convoluted path, but it seemed that this was it. Trust Gryffindors to have an entrance as easily accessed as this one, Draco thought with an inward roll of his eyes. Though, when he thought back to all the nights he had spent trying to find this very entrance, he realized he had never come close, somehow always finding himself on the opposite end of the castle to where he'd been advised to look for the Gryffindor dorms, or closer to his own dorms. It probably had a lot to do with those damned staircases he concluded. 

Granger reached up to fiddle with her hair, but quickly snatched her hand away. It was dawning on Draco that maybe she was nervous. Well, he supposed he was hovering, but only because he hadn't known that they had reached their destination. Draco smiled lazily, his tiredness obvious in the way his eyes grew lidded and his shoulders relaxed. With the day finally coming to an end, he felt the toll it had taken on him catching up. 

"Oh, it was nothing,” he said, “It's the least I could do. You took a chance in meeting with me, I know. I haven't given you much reason to trust me, and still you agreed." He dipped his head, his expression sobering as he spoke. 

"It was nothing,” Granger said smoothly, repeating his earlier words back to him, and Draco suspected she was subtly pointing out that Draco having walked her back to her dorm was as much of 'nothing' as her agreeing to help him out. He supposed they were both making concessions neither of them would have dreamed of making just a week before. 

He found himself laughing softly at the irony of her words, a hand rising to rub at his neck. "Well, anyway, I should be off. It'll be curfew soon and I doubt even I could charm my way out of a detention if the Headmistress has anything to say about it." He straightened then; all signs of his wariness wiped clean, replaced with his characteristic refined air. He let his hand drop from his neck, sliding it back into his pocket as he turned to leave. “Goodnight, Granger,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he was off. 

Draco's journey to his dorms passed in a haze, his mind replaying moments from his time spent studying with Granger. If the students who lingered in the halls had glares for him, Draco didn't notice. He’d cast his bubble of protection as an afterthought, and so was also unaware if they threw any spells his way. He hadn’t bothered when he had walked with Granger, doubting anyone would dare jinx him for fear of hitting Granger too. He had been right, the students largely avoiding them, their heads bent together as they whispered about the strange sight of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger walking together. 

When he finally lay in his own bed, sleep came easy, and for once, he dreamed of nothing. 

+++ 

The next day Draco ate heartily. He filled his plate with his favourite foods, checking for any poisons or hexes with a wave of his wand. Last night Draco had been high-strung, still adjusting to the strange new animosity he faced from those around him, causing him to forget the basic protective spells he had learned to use frequently when Death Eaters had inhabited his home. Now, rested, and fuelled by the accomplishments of last night, Draco had his wits about him. He was prepared for whatever the day had in store. 

Of course that meant double Herbology with Gryffindor first thing. Draco had spent an hour or two after his return to his dorms carefully socializing with some of his fellow Slytherins in the common room. His efforts had been rewarded with a slightly less chilly air towards him when he entered the Great Hall and seated himself at his table. It was true that most of them still ignored Draco, but at least when he stood to leave he did so effortlessly, no sticking charm anchoring him to the bench he sat on. It was with this tentative solidarity that Draco began double Herbology. It was a relief to only have to worry about the Gryffindors in class for once. And Draco knew that whatever those Gryffindorks threw at him wouldn’t be half as cunning as what his fellow Slytherins came up with. 

Besides, Pomona Sprout was quick to put an end to what little teasing the Gryffindors had braved, having never subscribed to favouring one house over the other. Professor Sprout was business-like in how she structured her class especially now that they were all in their final year of school. They’d paired off, most students keeping to their respective houses. 

Professor Sprout had given an extensive lecture on one of the more dangerous classifications of fungi and it’s many uses in potions and salves. Afterwards she’d supplied them each with a specimen and flicked her wand at the board, instructions filling the black surface. “Protective gloves can be found in the supply closet, as well as all utensils needed to dissect and contain your specimen.” The students stood in a rush and Professor Sprout had to raise her voice to be heard over the sudden wave of noise. “Please remember to cast the bubble head charm before cutting into the fungus! The affects of the gasses emitted by it can cause irreversible damage if you’re not careful!” 

Draco had been painfully aware of Granger’s presence in the room. He could feel her almost like a magical pull as she moved about. He wasn’t surprised to notice that she’d paired off with Weasley. He’d never gotten a response out of her last night as to whether they were still together, probably because he hadn’t shut up long enough to get one. But from the looks of things he was right to assume they still favoured each other. From the corner of his eye he saw Granger stand and head towards the supply closet. Most of the students had already gathered their supplies and so the closet was empty. Draco felt himself stand, his movements spurred on by the chance of gaining a moment alone with her. Something about engaging in conversation with her so close to her little friends excited Draco. They weren’t doing anything wrong by working together on his little project, but that still didn’t mean that the other members of the Golden Trio would find the situation agreeable. 

“I’ll get our supplies,” Draco offered his partner absently, a fellow Slytherin girl who had always hovered at the fringes of his awareness in previous years. She flirted plainly with Draco as they had sat together, but he knew from being head boy that Sylvia Melville had excellent marks in Herbology and was no simpering admirer.

Sylvia nodded as he stood and made his way toward the supply closet. He entered to find Hermione looking up at the stack of gloves sitting on a shelf just above her head. Draco pulled out his wand and summoned four sets, causing Hermione to whip around to face him. “Malfoy,” she said, sounding startled to find him standing in the doorway. 

He offered her two sets, keeping the other two for himself as he stepped into the cramped space. “Granger,” he said lowly, and reached up over her shoulder to collect some glass specimen vials. The movement brought them close together, just for an instant, before he stepped back and handed her a few vials as well. “I hope you’re doing well today.” 

She looked up at him, the same coy expression on her face from last night, when he had walked her to her rooms. “I am, thank you. And you?” she asked, her voice soft in the small space. 

“Fantastic,” Draco replied with a smirk. He noticed her grip loosening on the vials in her hand as she stared up at him and he gestured towards them. “You’ll probably want those whole if they’re to be of any use,” he warned her as they slipped further. 

“Oh!” She gripped the vials tight and Draco was sure she was blushing. “Thanks,” she hesitated and then smiled tentatively at him. “Well, I have to get back,” she said and brushed past him. 

Draco stepped aside, freeing the doorway. He watched her go, a smile playing on his lips as his heart raced in his chest. Who knew Granger was so easy to rile? Draco himself clutched the gloves in his hand with unnecessary force, his palms sweaty against the glass vials in his other hand. He pulled in a deep breath and exited the closet, his face blank once again as he moved back towards Sylvia. 

“Took you long enough,” she said slyly, her head tilted slightly to the side so that her hair fell off of her shoulders to expose her neck. “Did you get lost along the way?” 

Draco glanced surreptitiously over at Granger, oblivious to Sylvia's toying. Granger was busy laying out the supplies Draco had given her before herself and Weasley. He looked back to Sylvia. “Quite possibly,” he answered with some gravity. 

Sylvia laughed lightly and rolled her eyes, unaware of Draco’s true meaning. “Hopefully you’re better at Herbology than you are at finding things, Draco. I do wish to pass this year, you know.” They tucked into their work, and though Draco tried his best to concentrate on what lay before him, he could never quite forget about Granger sitting just a few tables away.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Hermione entered the common room after Malfoy had left with her only thought being getting to her dorm room before Harry or Ron could see her, and either poke fun at her for ‘already studying’ or try and convince her sit down and play exploding snap. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her two best friends, but more that there were a lot of thoughts in her already overcrowded brain at that moment and she needed to be alone to sort through them. Sometimes she wished students were allowed the use of pensives, right now it would definitely be easier for her to sleep if she could pull a few strands of thought out of her head and leave them on the bedside table until she was ready to face them. 

As she crossed the warm, inviting room, Hermione spotted Ron’s ginger head in an armchair next to the fireplace. He was engrossed in a game of chess with Harry—Ginny sitting across Harry’s lap in such a way that Harry was looking rather flustered, and unable to fully concentrate on her strategy suggestions, much to Ron’s delight, as his chessmen were currently kicking the marble out of Harry’s. Hermione waved to the group in passing, but went straight up the stairs to the room she shared with Ginny, Lavender, and a third seventh year girl she hadn’t gotten to know that well yet. Her four-poster bed stood next to one of the round room’s windows, Crookshanks curled up on the foot of the bed, purring in the warmth from the central stove that heated their quarters. She collapsed onto the bed, all her energy draining out of her, and curled around her cat, stroking his fur and cooing mindlessly into his ear. Sometimes it was nice to talk things out when the person—or creature—you were speaking with couldn’t talk back.

“What am I doing, Crookshanks?” she muttered into the cat’s ginger fur. “Hanging out with Malfoy? Agreeing to this project? I mean, it’s not like we can hide what we’re doing forever. Even if we did manage to keep it a secret until the end of term, people would find out in the end. And speaking of Malfoy, where do I even begin? He’s different than before. I mean, I guess we all are. Everyone had to grow up fast during the war, take hard looks at our lives and the way we were acting. I guess he maybe has too. It’s just…argh…” She broke off and pressed her face against Crookshanks’ belly, earning a low growl of annoyance from the cat, who thwacked his bottlebrush tail against her head in warning. “He’s so confusing!”

“Who’s so confusing?” 

Hermione sat up quickly, brushing cat hairs out of her eyes. Ginny had come into the room and now stood next to her own bed as she undid her black robe and laid it across the back of her desk chair. Her school uniform was slightly rumpled underneath but she didn’t seem to care. She reached for a hairbrush and began to pull it through her long, glossy, red hair, eyeing Hermione with mild curiosity. 

“Oh, um, my arithmancy professor,” Hermione fibbed hastily, listing one of the classes Ginny wasn’t in. “He’s a bit stodgy and doesn’t explain things that clearly.” She felt a little bad about this insult to Professor Abernathy’s character, though it wasn’t that far off from the truth. 

Ginny shrugged, and sat on her bed, still brushing her hair. She obviously hadn’t found anything in Hermione’s statement amiss. “Oh,” she said casually. “Well, I guess not everyone can be as easy to understand as Professor Vector was.” 

Hermione nodded, turning her gaze back to Crookshanks, who had begun to purr again after Hermione had moved her head and begun to stroke his stomach instead. She missed Professor Vector, who’d taught Arithmancy before the war, she was now retired and Professor Abernathy was nowhere near as well-versed in the subject as the previous professor had been. Ginny finished with her hair and changed into her pyjamas, climbing into bed with one of her textbooks, and Hermione was left alone with her thoughts. She changed into her own night clothes and called a goodnight over to Ginny, wishing she could discuss what was really bothering her, but she just wasn’t sure Ginny would understand. Pulling the velvet hangings closed about her, Hermione curled up in her blankets and tried to still her mind so she could sleep. After a long while, she finally drifted off, Crookshanks’ rumbling purrs lulling her into dreamland.

+++

Breakfast the next day went by in a blur. Hermione hadn’t slept well, despite going to bed early. She’d woken in the morning, dressed in a hurry, and made a half-hearted attempt to tame her curly hair before meeting Ginny in the Common Room and walking over to the great hall. Ron and Harry were already there, sitting in their usual spot halfway down the table. Hermione had taken a seat next to Ron—who’d leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, disregarding the fact that his mouth was full of toast and marmalade—and tried to force down some food. Her first class was double Herbology that morning, and the Gryffindors were paired with the Slytherins. She wondered how Malfoy would act in class when he saw her. What if he’d only been polite to her because of his project? Maybe today, surrounded by the rest of his house, his old antagonistic personality would come back to bear? Consumed with such questions, she’d managed to eat a bit of toast and pumpkin juice, barely tasting either, before it was time to follow the rest of her year to the greenhouses. 

She spotted Malfoy at once upon entering greenhouse four. His tall, lean form stood out from the mass of milling students, somehow more elegant. It was an odd word to apply to a boy, she thought distractedly, following Ron to a table and sitting down next to him, across from Harry and Ginny, but it fit Draco Malfoy, especially this year. He had a sort of presence that was rooted in ‘the old ways’, a phrase which Hermione found she didn’t apply to his former death eater status these days, instead having the words recall to her a time when politeness and manners had been more important to the way people conducted themselves. 

It was a little strange to have Ginny in their classes now, she thought, settling into her chair and setting her bag on the floor next to her. Hermione had to remind herself that it wasn’t Ginny who’d skipped a year forward, it was she, and the others, who’d fallen behind. Still, she was glad of Ginny’s presence, even if it did bug Ron now and then. She was Hermione’s best female friend and it was nice to have a girl to talk to in lessons now and then. 

Distracted as she was, however, her thoughts sliding across the room to stare at the back of Draco Malfoy’s blond head as he sat next to a slim, pretty Slytherin girl who was flirting shamelessly with him, Hermione only heard about half the lecture Professor Sprout was giving them on the fungi they were going to be studying in class that morning. When she instructed them to pair off, Hermione had glanced over at Ginny, thinking it might be nice to work with her instead of Harry or Ron for a change, but found her friend and Harry already getting up from the work table to get the supplies they’d need for their project. Turning toward Ron with a vaguely sinking feeling, Hermione tried to smile.

Ron grinned next to her. “Partners?” he asked, shoving a hand through his overlong ginger locks. He thought the floppy look was ‘cool’, but Hermione frankly thought he looked unkempt, and had been rallying with Mrs. Weasley all summer to try and convince Ron to cut his hair. He’d refused.

“Sure, Ron,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. Ron had never been great shakes at Herbology. Harry wasn’t bad, but Ginny had turned out surprisingly gifted in the subject. Which was probably why Harry had hurried to pair up with her when faced with the choice between her, Hermione, or Ron. The three of them had always worked together on projects in Herbology or Potions, but when they were made to pair off, it was only natural that Harry should choose his girlfriend out of the three options. And also only natural that he should assume Hermione would be happy to work with Ron. There was no way for him to know how her feelings for Ron had been dimming over the past few months, how little irritations of his were growing harder for Hermione to bare. Especially the way Ron moaned about doing classwork and tried his best to get Hermione to do all the difficult stuff. This wasn’t really different from how it had always been, but somehow, this year, it bugged her worse. So, it was to be forgiven if Hermione wasn’t really paying that much attention as she made her way to the supply closet at the back of the greenhouse, not realizing anyone else was following her.

“Gloves, gloves…” she muttered to herself, finally spying them on a shelf over her head. They were too high for her to reach, and she’d left her wand in her bag, not needing it for the lesson. She was just casting her gaze about the cramped closet for a step ladder of some sort, sure there’d be one, as Professor Sprout was a rather squat witch who was actually shorter than Hermione herself was, when there was a rustle above her and four pairs of gloves whisked off the shelf and flew through the air over her head to someone standing behind her. Turning around to see who it was, she sucked in a startled gasp of surprise. “Malfoy!”

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space and blocking the light from the bright greenhouse beyond. He held his wand in one hand, graceful fingers wrapped around the smooth wood, a stack of gloves in his other hand. “Granger,” he acknowledged, his voice low, holding out two sets of heavy gloves. Had he noticed her unable to reach them and summoned them down for her? The gesture was unexpectedly kind. Last year’s Malfoy would likely have mocked her height and made up some jibe about her Muggle parentage. Slowly, she lifted her hand and accepted the gloves, pulling them back and holding them uncertainly against her chest. And then Malfoy took a step toward her, his long legs carrying him across the small space in a single stride, and, having nowhere else to go with the supply shelf at her back, Hermione abruptly found herself face to face with Malfoy’s chest, only inches from her nose.

She went absolutely still, feeling her heart rate suddenly leap into overdrive at his nearness. She’d rarely been this close to a boy that wasn’t Ron, not in this capacity. And what was Malfoy doing anyway? Surely he wasn’t about to jinx her or something. Not with a roomful of people only steps away. Not after he’d actually been nice to her the previous evening—

And suddenly she realized she could feel the warmth of his body, even though they weren’t actually touching, and Hermione found herself wondering what it would be like to touch the boy in front of her. This thought sent a jolt of shock through her, as if she’d picked up one of the electro-pods they’d studied in sixth year, without gloves. What on earth was she thinking?! 

By the time this thought had made it’s way through her startled brain though, Malfoy was already drawing back, a set of glass vials in his hands. Once there was space between them again, he held out a few toward her. Still reeling at his abrupt nearness, even if it had only been for an instant, she accepted them mutely with trembling hands, as Malfoy murmured “I hope you’re doing well today.” Attempting to school her features, Hermione managed to choke out, “I am, thank you. And you?” Her face felt hot and she hoped that the dimness of the supply cupboard hid that fact. Her voice had felt stuck in her throat, and her reply was barely above a whisper. 

Across from her, there was a curious little smirk on Malfoy’s lips, as if he was enjoying her discomfort, a thought that both irritated and intrigued her. He hadn’t said or done anything to harass her, aside from getting in her personal space, though she didn’t think he’d done it to cause her intentional discomfort. Or maybe he had, just not for the reasons she might have expected. Her cheeks felt pinker than ever and she wished he would go back to the pretty Slytherin girl and leave her alone. She had to concentrate. Hadn’t Professor Sprout said something about this particular fungi being dangerous? Forget the fungi, there was enough danger in this cupboard to be getting on with. 

“Fantasic,” Malfoy drawled, his eyes holding hers for a long moment, before drifting downwards. Hermione wondered what had his attention now, and he answered her a second later, a hint of laughter in his gently mocking voice. “You’ll probably want those whole if they’re to be of any use.”

She glanced in the same direction as Malfoy’s eyes, and realized, in her distraction, she had loosened her hold on the vials he’d given her, and they were in great danger of slipping out of her fingers and smashing on the greenhouse floor. Professor Sprout would not be pleased if she broke something in her class. “Oh!” Hermione clutched the vials convulsively at Malfoy’s dry warning, blushing harder in embarrassment. There was just something about Malfoy that made her nervous these days, and it wasn’t the thought of him hexing her when she was unaware. 

Annoyed that she’d let him distract her almost to the point of messing up her assignment before she’d begun, Hermione clutched the gloves and vials to the front of her robes and tried to get her self back under control. “Thanks,” she said, trying to smile and sound unbothered. Even as she did so, she knew her smile was hesitant and her voice was a shade too high. Forget it, she needed to get out of this confined space so she could breath and think straight again. “Well, I have to get back,” she muttered, and, heedless of whether Malfoy would think her rude or not, she brushed past him, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it had felt in the dark just now. 

Malfoy stepped aside so she could pass, and Hermione hurried back across the green house to the table where Ron was waiting for her, slapping the gloves down onto the battered wood top and tossing the vials next to them, were they rolled across the table’s surface with faint clinks. Muttering under her breath she caught the delicate glass jars before they could roll off the table and smash on the floor. She felt rattled and distinctly unsettled from her brief run-in with Malfoy. He’d been polite as always, though there’d been something in the way he’d… —Had he been teasing her? _Flirting_ with her? It was the second time in so many days that this ludicrous thought had flashed across her mind, and she felt more lost than ever. 

“Hermione!” Someone was shouting at her, and she looked up rather wildly, startled once again. “You forgot your Bubblehead Charm!” 

Glancing between Ron, Harry, and Ginny, all of them sporting distorted features from the clear, wavering bubbles encasing their heads, and then back down at the table, already feeling slightly woozy, Hermione realized the fungi she’d just cut into with her silver knife had split apart and begun to release a thick, acrid, navy gas. 

_Oh Merlin_ , she thought, stumbling backward in an attempt to get far enough away from the gas that it couldn’t make her sicker. 

The room began to spin…

+++

Sylvia used a pair of tweezers to carefully pick up a section of flayed tuber, dropping it into the glass vial Draco held upright for her. With great care Draco lifted the cutting knife he had used to scrap out the purple goo that had been inside a similarly flayed tuber of fungus and slide the edge of it along the mouth of the vial, watching with some fascination as the goo grew spindly clear fibers that moved the glob down into the vial, spreading around the section of fungus. He quickly capped the vial, holding it out as Sylvia waved her wand and set the vial to levitating beside two other vials of fungus. 

“Hermione! You forgot your bubblehead charm!” someone yelled and Draco, along with the rest of the class looked up towards the source of the voice. Sylvia, startled, allowed her levitation spell to fail, resulting in the vials dropping to the table and clattering to the floor, smashing. 

Hermione stood and stumbled away from her table, the students around her rushing to their feet as her knees gave way. Draco stood, his chair scrapping loudly against the floor as he did so. His feet carried him quickly towards her as she collapsed into the arms of Potter. Draco lifted his wand, aiming it at Hermione— 

“Oi! What do you think you’re—!” It was the girl Weasley, her fiery eyes intent on his wand. She lifted her own wand and sent Draco’s flying across the room, but not before he spelled a gust of air to clear away the creeping dark blue gas surrounding Granger that had filled the room as the students had began their task. But he didn’t care as he rushed to Granger. Professor Sprout reached them at the same time, shoving students aside in her haste. 

“Fool girl,” she mumbled as she cast the Bubblehead charm on Granger, but the words held more worry than anger. “We need to get her to the hospital wing quickly,” Professor Sprout continued, as she pulled something from her robes. It was a glass bottle with a spray nozzle screwed onto the top. She pushed her hand into the bubble surrounding Granger’s head, the wobbling sphere caving, then giving as it allowed her fingers to penetrate the deceptively thick barrier. She pressed the nozzle and a burst of spray filled the bubble. Granger moaned, her face scrunching up as the mist settled on her face. 

“She’s still responsive. That’s good,” she said, talking mostly for her own benefit rather than those around her. “This antidote will only delay the effects of the gas. She’ll need immediate attention. You can put her down now, Mr. Potter.” Potter did so, laying her head carefully down onto the floor. 

“Stand back!” Professor Sprout yelled and the students cleared immediately, except Potter, Weasley and Draco, who had been crouched by the professor’s side. “I’ll levitate her to the hospital wing, the rest of you clean up as I’ve instructed on the board.” She looked at them all sharply. “None of you cancel your charms until everything is neatly put away.” She levitated Hermione then, who was drifting in and out of awareness, her body limp save for the back and forth movement of her head. “I don’t need another ailing student in the Hospital wing.” She was already making her way toward her office where, Draco assumed, she had a more direct path to the Infirmary. Weasley, Potter and Ginny made to follow, only to be waved away by Professor Sprout. “There will be enough going on without the three of you getting in the way.” She said distractedly and her office door closed firmly behind her. 

Everyone stood silently for a moment, stunned, until Weasley noticed Draco standing nearby. His fists curled, nostrils flaring as he took a step towards Draco. “Come to watch the show, Malfoy?” he spat, his face an ugly scowl. “Wanted to watch her die, did you? I bet you did something, vanished her charm or something.” 

Draco cocked his head, his gaze stony as he turned to face Weasley. “This isn’t 1998 Weasley. I no longer wish to see any of you dead,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Besides, what use would she be to me if she died?” He immediately regretted his words, knowing they would give too much away. 

Weasley practically growled. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“You were about to curse her, I saw you!” Ginny interjected as she stepped beside her brother, the bubble around her head bobbling against Weasley’s own. The sight would have been amusing had Draco not been so irritated. 

“Or maybe I was trying to save her life, ever thought of that?” he snapped back at her, his arms lifting to cross over his chest. He was feeling sorely outnumbered as the class began to gather around them. 

Weasley scoffed, his head jerking to the side as if the mere thought of Draco wanting to save anyone was a physical attack to his person. 

“I saw you too, Malfoy, you had your wand pointed at her,” Potter said, he too stepping up to flank Weasley’s other side. 

“Oh for the—” He held out his hand, summoning his wand. In retrospect that had not been a smart move on his part as the three before him immediately fell into defensive duelling stances, their own wands pointed towards him. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to the three of you accuse me of attempted murder,” Draco bit out, and before any of them could make a move he slashed his wand in the air and an invisible force pushed all those before him off to the side, clearing his path to the door. He strolled quickly passed them, ignoring the way they struggled and called after him as he exited the room, then slammed the door behind him, locking it for good measure. 

Once outside, Draco Disillusioned himself and headed for the Infirmary, leaving the others to clean up the classroom. As he expected, the door burst open behind him, students spilling out into the hall with Ginny, Potter and Weasley at their front. None of them saw Draco escaping down the hall, or noticed as he turned a corner. He heard their voices yelling out his name but ignored them, intent on reaching the Infirmary. He could hear running footsteps approaching, and Draco flattened himself just in time as the three rounded the corner. They faltered upon seeing no sign of Draco, but quickly agreed to head to the Hospital wing just as Draco had intended to do himself. 

He followed behind them, far enough away that they wouldn’t hear his footsteps above their own. They debated over Draco’s motive briefly, before the conversation turned to Hermione’s well-being. When they finally reached the Wing and burst through the doors, Draco slipping in behind them before the door could close on him, they were turned away by a stern healer’s aid, to their boisterous protests. The aid hadn’t noticed Draco and so he slipped further into the infirmary, following the urgent voices he heard further in. 

Hermione lay prone in a small, clean cot, surrounded by Madam Pomfrey, Professor Sprout and another healer’s assistant. They fussed over her, diagnostic spells filling the air around Granger with sparking light. 

“She’ll be fine in a day or two,” Madam Pomfrey stated firmly as she spelled a potion into Hermione. “She might have some hallucinations, dizziness, general soreness and bouts of weakness. If you hadn’t warned us about your lesson, Pomona, we would not have been prepared for such an occasion.” 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s usually a very prudent girl. Maybe a little _too_ prudent,” Professor Sprout said from her position beside Madam Pomfrey. 

Pomfrey tisked, her wand waving as another diagnostic spell spilled into the air. “They never really got to make mistakes, or even be children, did they?” she remarked wistfully. 

“What a time to start,” Professor Sprout said dryly, no longer wracked with worry.

Draco stepped back behind the curtain that had been drawn around Granger’s bed. All of this was his fault, he knew. Maybe it was arrogant to assume so, but Professor Sprout was right: Granger was always so careful in class, taking care to get everything just right. Draco expected a folly like this one from the likes of Neville or even Seamus, but Granger? No, never of Granger. Why had he been so eager to play such games with her? His interference could have cost Granger her life. He wandered over to a set of chairs by a vacant cot and slid into one as he thought. His heart had calmed its frantic pace in his chest now that he knew she would survive, but the guilt and worry still churned angrily in his stomach. 

This wouldn’t be the first time that Granger had fallen to harm as a result of Draco’s meddling, but this time felt different. He had approached her with good intentions, only to have his good faith thrown in his face just two days into their acquaintance. Draco was never superstitious, knowing too much about the workings of magic, but he couldn’t ignore the signs before him. Maybe Draco should leave Granger to live her life without his involvement. He could probably work out the charm on his own if he really put his mind to it. Granger’s help had been immense, having reached conclusions that Draco wouldn’t have dreamed of, but maybe with the little progress they had gained together Draco could push through to a solution… 

Also, there were his ever-changing feelings for Granger. He couldn’t delude himself into thinking that he only thought of Granger in platonic terms anymore. That had been proven false just today in the way he had found the prospect of a moment alone with her in class irresistible. Even if they could somehow get along long enough to form a friendship—not that Draco saw any possibility of that ever happening—the odds would be heavily stacked against them. 

Draco heard the voices of Madam Pomfrey, Professor Sprout, and the rest retreating, and he stood, walking over to where Granger lay alone. She was pale but looked all right. Seeing that she was still breathing helped calm his apprehension further. She roused, then, her eyes opening to tiny slits. They looked glassy, from what Draco could see of them, but they held steady. His heart leapt and he stepped away, quickly retreating from the infirmary. Had she seen him, recognized him? What would she think of Draco standing at her bedside? He hoped to Merlin that she hadn’t been lucid enough to work out who he was. 

Draco was sure Hermione would come to the same conclusion that he had; that their meeting was only a distraction to her. She would probably send an owl with an excuse as to why they could no longer continue studying together, if she bothered to reach out to him at all. In any case, Draco would have a couple days to work out a plan for tackling his charm and avoiding Hermione for the rest of the term, while she healed. 

Luckily, the rest of his lessons progressed without much excitement, and no sightings of Granger’s friends. He skipped dining in the Great Hall, instead taking a quick meal in the kitchens before heading up to his dorm to study. He’d been bombarded with questions as he entered the Slytherin common room, everyone wanting to know what had happened earlier that day. They seemed to have conveniently forgotten that they were avoiding Draco, but he silenced them all with a wave of his hand, and no one dared bother him in his rooms. The dorm stayed blessedly empty until curfew. 

+++

The room whirled as Hermione stumbled away from the fumes pouring out of the tuber she’d just sliced into; really, it was astounding just how much gas was stored inside such a small specimen. She could feel her throat closing up, as if she was having an allergic reaction, and tried to cough, only managing to make a wheezing sort of choking sound as she tried to pull in clean air where there was none. She could hear shouting and general chaos as half the class pushed away from their tables to see what was going on, and in the confusion Hermione backed into someone _hard_. 

“Oh!” she tried to say, the words somehow sticking in her throat before they make their way from her brain to her lips. “Harry, I’m sorry…” At least she thought she said them, maybe they were only a passing fancy. The world was fading at the edges of her vision, darkness pressing in at all sides, and Hermione felt her hands fluttering frantically against her throat, desperate to do something and finding themselves useless. 

_That’s strange_ , she found herself thinking as she tried to take another step away from the melee surrounding her, and found her legs felt like bags of water. _What’s happening…_

And her legs gave way, darkness rushing in as Hermione slumped backward. Someone’s arms came around her as she fell, pulling her into his chest as the ground dropped away, but before she could consider who it might be, she was too far gone. Her chest felt constricted, like someone had wrapped her body in iron bands, slowly tightening them until Hermione felt she would never be able pull air into her lungs ever again. Her heart beat furiously as her body began to convulse, trying to compensate for things her lungs were failing to do, and still the blackness pressed her deeper down— 

—A blast of wind rushed across her face, and suddenly Hermione was able to breathe again, if just for a moment, and she gasped in air. With air came a return of her senses, if only briefly, and voices cut in and out like a badly tuned radio. 

“Oi! What do you think you’re—!” That was Ginny’s voice, Hermione thought dimly, wondering what her friend was so angry about. There was the sounds of a scuffle, a shout from someone else, and a clatter as something went flying and hit the dirt-encrusted floorboards of the greenhouse. 

Blackness swam in and out again, and with it, a new voice. “Fool girl,” someone else muttered, and Hermione felt a wave of charged air wash over her face as someone cast a spell. “We need to get her to the hospital wing, quickly.” 

_Who has to go to the hospital wing?_ Hermione wondered vaguely, confusion leeching reason from her mind. Then the sounds of the classroom muted, as something sealed itself around her head, locking out the poisonous gasses. There was a faint sucking sound then as something passed through the barrier, and then a cold mist rained down on Hermione’s face. The iron bands around her chest loosened the faintest bit, pulling a moan of relief from her lips. Then blackness poured over her again, and the last thing she remembered was a feeling of weightlessness as her body rose into the air. 

+++ 

It could have been minutes or hours later when Hermione’s consciousness reawakened. She no longer felt weightless, in fact, her body felt heavy, several layers of blankets pressing her down onto a firm mattress. Why was she in bed? she wondered curiously. She couldn’t remember going back to her dorm. Were classes already over? Where had the time gone? 

“…hallucinations, dizziness…” someone was saying over top of her, as another person tutted. “…general soreness…weakness…” It sounded like Madam Pompfrey, though what Hogwarts’ head healer was doing in Hermione’s Herbology lesson—or her dorm?—was a mystery to her. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s usually a very prudent girl…” another voice cut in, Professor Sprout, Hermione realized. And with that, the events of the past hour flooded back to Hermione. The lesson, her carelessness, passing out in the middle of class… 

Madam Pomfrey and Professor Sprout walked away from her cot, still discussing the events of the lesson, and the fact that ‘that Granger girl’ was really not the type to be so absent-minded. As the adults retreated, Hermione rolled over on her cot so that she was facing the door to the hallway. Her throat still hurt, though the mist Professor Sprout had sprayed on her had brought down the puffiness of her face, and the charms the medi-witch and Herbology professor had cast upon arrival in the hospital wing had pushed away most of the more immediate effects of the gas. Still, recovery was apparently not to be an easy journey over the next few days. 

A faint noise, barely a scuffle of someone’s boot against the stone floor, sounded then, the soft noise magnified in the silence of the nearly-empty infirmary, and Hermione blinked her tired eyes open to squint in the direction it had come from. A movement in the shadows caught her attention, and she blinked harder, trying to focus. A tall figure stood off to the side of the room, a few beds away, silently observing her. The air around the person wavered faintly, and her foggy mind deduced that the person was likely spelled with some sort of concealment charm. But she’d seen him. At least, she thought it was a him. The figure’s body was tall and lean, though their face was hard to see in the low-lit room. The person, whoever it was, said nothing, only stood watching her silently for another few seconds. Then they seemed to realize that she was watching them back, and turned abruptly to exit the room, feet tapping a quick staccato against the floor as they retreated, leaving her alone. 

The fog of sleep was heavy over her as Hermione stared at the place the person had stood. The only sounds in the room were her own laboured breathing and the ticking of a tall grandfather clock in one corner. Madam Pomfrey’s words floated back to her once more. “Hallucinations…” she’d said. Maybe that had been all it was. Her own overactive imagination. After all, if Harry, Ron, and Ginny weren’t already crowded next to her cot, demanding to know how she was doing, then Madam Pomfrey had probably declared it a closed ward. With this thought, sleep clasped her in its embrace, and drew her down until she knew no more. 

+++ 

Madam Pomfrey released Hermione the next morning, allowing her to go back to classes with a stern reminder of the symptoms she might still face over the next few days, and the warning not to go anywhere alone until her body had fully recovered. 

Ron had come by the previous evening, and they had talked for a few minutes, though Hermione had been too out of it to say much and he’d returned to Gryffindor Tower with the cheery farewell: “Don’t worry about missing out on the fungi thing, Hermione, Sprout was so rattled she declared them unfit for lessons and tossed the whole lot out! I don’t think she’ll even put them on the exam, she was that distressed about everything.” This didn’t have the desired effect of making her feel relieved about the lesson she missed, however. Hermione only felt a wave of guilt wash over her for being the idiot who nearly choked to death because she’d been too distracted by her own inner thoughts to pay attention to what she was doing. It was so unlike her normal behaviour that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to live the embarrassment down. 

Harry and Ginny had come by together after Ron had departed, Ginny leaping in with a fantastical tale of Draco Malfoy being caught with his wand out just as Hermione fainted into Harry’s arms. Ginny wasn’t sure what spell he’d cast, as she hadn’t seen him do anything exactly, but it was Malfoy, and the evidence was damning on principle alone. Harry had stood back, nodding along with Ginny’s story, though when Hermione had pressed him on the details, he’d admitted that Malfoy had denied having anything to do with what had happened to her, even going so far as to claim he’d been trying to help her, even save her life. Ginny had scoffed loudly when Harry had recounted this, looking stubbornly set against even considering the possibility. Though Harry had quietly mused that if Malfoy had been the one to cause Hermione's accident, he was more likely to relish in the responsibility than deny his involvement so vehemently. 

Malfoy had had his wand out when she fell? Hermione remembered the breeze that had pushed back the fungi’s poison gas, allowing her a much needed gasp of fresh air before Professor Sprout had arrived on the scene and managed to secure her forgotten bubble-head charm. Had that been Malfoy’s doing? If it had, then he’d been more than right about saving her life. Besides, despite her fleeting worry when the two of them had been in the supply closet together, she didn’t think Malfoy would curse her. Not any more. She wasn’t entirely sure why this thought was so certain, except for the way Malfoy had looked at her just before she’d left the cupboard. That faint, amused, smile on his face. 

This morning no one was in the infirmary except Madam Pomfrey and Hermione, and the medi-witch was bustling about her office, leaving Hermione to take the potion she’d left on her bedside table before she was allowed to leave. Hermione sniffed the mug and made a face, why couldn’t healing concoctions ever smell like chocolate or lemons or anything other than the stomach-twisting stench that currently wafted out of the mug in her hands? Taking a deep breath and pinching her nose to try and dull her sense of smell, Hermione tossed the contents of the mug down her throat, trying not to gag. Then she gathered her schoolbag from where it had been sitting on the cot next to her’s since the night before—a thoughtful gesture on Harry’s part, since he knew she’d have wanted to do her homework if she was able, though as she’d slept straight through the night till this morning, Hermione hadn’t had a chance to do anything. She’d have to catch up in the library after classes finished. 

+++

Classes passed slowly that day. Hermione had a double period of Charms with the Ravenclaws in the morning, then lunch, then a second set of double classes in the afternoon, this time Potions. With the Slytherins. As she made her way down the steep stone stairs toward the dungeon classroom, Ginny hovering at her side and casting anxious glances her way every ten seconds, snatches of conversation drifted to Hermione’s ears from the students crowding around them, trying to push their way through the narrow hall. 

“Did you hear about Draco Malfoy?” someone was saying a few people behind where Hermione and Ginny were standing, waiting for a break in the crowd so they could push their way closer to the Potions room. Hermione’s head snapped around, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the crowd of chattering students, trying to locate the person who’d spoken. 

“Yes!” the speaker’s friend replied, sounding excited. “He tried to curse Hermione Granger in Herbology yesterday. Right in the middle of class!” 

“People have been saying he’s been trying to act all cool and aloof since he came back to school,” the first person said, “but I guess he could only hold back for so long…” 

The pair of voices faded into the crowd as the speakers headed in the opposite direction than Hermione and Ginny were trying to go, and the rest of their conversation was lost. But they were far from the only people gossiping about the events of the previous day. Feeling her head throbbing with the beginnings of a headache, Hermione tried to ignore everyone around her as she and Ginny finally reached the potions door and squeezed out of the throng of students into the large room. The potions room was about half full of students from both houses, mingling by their cauldrons and setting out ingredients for their lab, and as she and Ginny found a table off to the side Hermione couldn’t help but look around the dimly lit classroom, automatically scanning—not for Ron’s red hair, or Harry’s wind-tossed black locks—but for blond hair. 

Yet, as the potions stations gradually filled up with students, Malfoy remained no where in sight. And when the potions professor entered the room and closed the door firmly behind him, she still didn’t see him. Why wasn’t he here? she wondered. If Malfoy truly had nothing to hide, no reason to avoid her—that is, this class—where was he?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five 

Draco slid open a small drawer filled with ties in various shades of Slytherin green and pursued his options. He lifted a tie with snakes charmed to furl and unfurl stitched into the fabric, but thought better of it, instead picking out a tie with tiny silver diamonds patterned over the silk. He draped the tie over his upturned collar and began deftly folding it into a crisp ediety knot, the silk whispering softly as thin pale fingers flipped and pulled it into submission. 

“I would have gone with the snakes,” his mirror ridiculed. “Snakes are fun, and today seems like the day for a bit of fun, don’t you think?” 

“Shows how much you know,” Draco murmured quietly as he turned down his collar, spelling it so that it settled stiffly around his throat. He pulled a black cashmere vest over the ensemble, tugging at it until it fit just right. “Today is a day for diamonds, everyone knows that.” He smoothed a hand over his hair unnecessarily; not a strand was out of place, he’d made sure of it in the bathroom after his shower. He closed his armoire door, muffling the mirror’s reply. He dabbed a few drops of cologne that reeked of wealth and refinement— or so the woman whose shop he’d bought it from had promised him—onto his neck and wrists. 

Around him his dorm mates were following a similar routine, talking faintly amongst themselves. Draco didn’t mind being excluded, he wasn’t much of a morning person anyway. He really only felt human after having a few cups of tea in him. 

“Word is that you tried to kill Hermione Granger yesterday, Malfoy.” Blaise’s deep, smooth voice penetrated Draco’s thoughts as the boy pulled a school robe over an outfit almost identical to Draco’s. 

Draco paused as he pulled on his own robe, but only for a second. He didn’t reply immediately, instead sliding a couple of books from his desk into his bag before he acknowledged Blaise’s comment. “Is that what they’re saying?” he drawled, meeting the eyes of his housemate. “I remember it differently.” 

Blaise sauntered over and leaned casually against Draco’s armoire. “Naturally everyone knows that the Granger girl was sent to the Hospital Wing—“ 

“Naturally,” Draco said with some enmity. 

 Blaise chuckled, one long leg lifting to cross over the other. He was the picture of casual disinterest. “Naturally,” he said again with a smile. “Everyone is sure you were the reason she was put there, but I don’t believe it to be true.”

Draco grabbed the handle of his leather bag, barely suppressing a roll of his eyes. “Good to know you’re on my side,” he said drolly. “Say, where was all this support over the summer?” 

 Blaise dismissed the subject with a toss of his head. “Please. Don’t play hurt with me, Draco. You know as well as I do that being associated with the Malfoy’s doesn’t hold the same prestige as it used to.”

 Draco had to admire Blaise for his bluntness at least. He hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.

“Our family’s alliances were tentative before the war. With my father failing to join the ranks of the Dark Lord, the other pureblood families were feeing especially cold towards us. Not that I hold anything against my father. Those who aligned themselves with Voldemort are in shambles now. Still, appearances must be upheld.” He stood, then, waving a careless hand through the air. “But that’s neither here nor there. I want to know the truth about what really happened yesterday.” 

Draco was quickly growing tired of whatever game Blaise was playing. “It’s as I told them, I was only trying to help.” 

“Help?” Blaise said doubtfully. “To what end?”  

“To the end that she wouldn’t die, Zabini, what else?” 

Blaise’s eyebrows rose at being addressed by his last name, but he didn’t remark on it. “That’s not it, though, is it? I’ve known you for years, _Draco_ ,” he said, pointedly emphasizing Draco’s first name. “You hardly do anything if it doesn’t somehow benefit you in the long run.” 

Draco felt his lips twitch in annoyance, but he remained cool. “And look how far that got me,” he said, turning away from his one-time friend. “Maybe everyone should try less to assume the worst of me, or else mind their own business,” he tossed over his shoulder as he left the room. 

Behind him, Blaise hummed dubiously but said nothing. 

Blaise had been right, Draco soon learned, as the day progressed. Everyone thought Draco had been the cause of Granger’s trip to the Hospital Wing yesterday. The rumours had grown increasingly wild, some even saying that Draco had stood up in the middle of class, loudly announcing that he felt Mudbloods didn’t belong at Hogwarts, then proceeding to curse Granger and anyone else who opposed him. As if Draco would be as impulsive as all that. If he’d wanted to curse someone he wouldn’t have made a show of it. He would have planned and plotted like a respectable Slytherin. Draco was almost more insulted that they believed he would carry on in such a way. 

He wondered if Hermione believed them. 

How could she not? He was sure her friends were filling her head with all sorts of lies, believable ones, if his past were taken into account. But she’d seen for herself that Draco had changed. Hadn’t she? Draco had had ample opportunity to hurt Granger if he had wished to back when they had been alone in the Library, and he hadn’t. The urge to do so had never struck him. Then his thoughts turned again to his doubts of yesterday, of how he probably was the reason she’d been hospitalized, though not for the same reasons the rumours proclaimed. It was all a big mess. Draco didn’t know what he could do to fix it short of being as foolish as his peers thought him and hunting Granger down to make an elaborate apology where everyone could see. 

He couldn’t see himself doing that, though, his pride still something he held close. So that left him back where he began, determined to try and avoid it all. To avoid Granger. He reminded himself that he still had a whole day to figure out what to do about the Charm. 

As if the world was determined to prove him wrong in everything, Draco overheard the conversation of two students in front of him. He was done with his first half of classes, as was everyone else, and had joined the teeming throng of students headed to the Great Hall for lunch. 

 “—already out and in class. Guess it wasn’t too bad,” one girl was saying as she walked along, trying not to get shoved forward by the momentum of the crowd around her.

“My brother had class with her earlier, said she looks good as new, if a bit pale,” replied her friend. 

 “Poor Hermione. You’d think Malfoy would just get on with his life already. If anyone should be banned from…” Their voices faded back into the roar of the crowd and Draco stepped out of the flow and off to the side, his mind whirling. Granger had already been released? He thought he would have more time before she could return to her daily activities. He supposed he should be glad that she hadn’t been injured enough to warrant a stay days on end, but he hadn’t expected her to be walking the halls of Hogwarts so soon.

That meant she would be in attendance later that day of double Potions with Gryffindor. Draco’s heart sank. He had spent almost the whole day angsting over Granger, with only the promise of an engrossing Potions lesson to lift his spirits. To learn that she would be present had put a substantial damper on Draco’s already dismal mood. How could he face her? He thought of skipping, but decided that was out of the question if he were trying to actually do well in class of his own merit. Nothing like showing everyone he was changing his ways like cutting class. 

His appetite suddenly left him and he turned to fight his way against the rush of students, heading for the grounds instead. He needed to clear his thoughts and he knew just the thing to help him do so. Once on the grounds, Draco summoned his broomstick, a disgustingly expensive version of the latest model, unavailable for retail. He mounted his broom and kicked off with one powerful push of his legs, the balls of his feet finding the footrests on either side of it as he took flight. He leaned forward and the wind tore at his carefully styled hair, plucking at his collar and robes. 

He flattened himself against the broom, gaining speed at an alarming rate. He angled the broom towards the sky and shot up in a spiral. The air turned frigid and Draco cut power to his broom, slowly arching backwards until his broomstick pointed towards the ground. With a great whoosh of air he shot towards the ground, a human shaped meteor on a deadly path towards earth. Seconds before he crashed to the ground he rose on his broom, digging his heels into the foot rests, the muscles in his upper arms standing rigid as he smoothly yanked the broom upwards so that he sped along levelly with the ground. His stomach fell in that familiar way at the execution of a perfect _Wronski Feint_. His blood pounded through his body, his adrenaline pulling a triumphant yell from deep within him. 

He slowed then, making his way towards the Quidditch Pitch at a more leisurely pace. He circled the pitch lazily, flying high above the others who had thought to spend their lunch period on the pitch as well. Now that his blood was flowing, Draco felt he could finally think clearly. As much as he wanted to avoid any confrontation that might happen between the two of them, Draco wasn’t a coward. He would go to double Potions today, but he would show up late. If he knew Granger she would be on time, which meant that if Draco arrived late to class, she would already be seated. He could avoid their inevitable encounter for at least one more class. 

Draco spent the rest of his lunch period on the Pitch, a few of the Slytherin’s on the Quidditch team having approached him for a quick pick up game. When he returned to classes he felt more himself than he had all day. It was with new energy that he attended his next class, his mind more focused on the task of taking notes. When class let out he took his time walking to double Potions. The halls were empty when he finally approached the classroom door. He could hear the professor already beginning the lesson inside. He hesitated for an instant, but forced himself to enter the room. 

The professor broke off mid sentence, eyes glaring as they followed Draco’s progress towards the back of the classroom. His weren’t the only eyes Draco felt upon him. 

“Five points from Slytherin for tardiness, Mr. Malfoy. Don’t let it happen again,” he heard as he found a table next to a solitary Slytherin boy. It took him a moment to realize it was Blaise. He said nothing in response as he took his seat quietly and the class resumed.   

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” Blaise whispered, placing an elbow on the table, his hand covering his mouth. 

“It was a close thing,” Draco admitted, as he pulled out parchment, quill and textbook. 

“Don’t worry, if those Gryffindor bastards try anything I’ve got your back,” Blaise muttered. 

Draco looked at him, suspicious of the other Slytherin’s motives. Why was he suddenly so interested in Draco’s wellbeing? Draco nodded solemnly, accepting Blaise’s offer. He wouldn’t turn down help, but he would be wary of whatever schemes Blaise had in mind. He’d accused Draco of acting solely in his own interest, but Blaise wasn’t much different. Draco had taught Blaise everything he knew about subterfuge, so not much would get past him. 

Draco looked up just as Granger cut a glance his way. Their eyes met and he searched her gaze for a hint at what she was thinking, but her face was impassive, giving nothing away. He looked away first, inking his quill and scrawling a title onto the blank page of his parchment to give himself something to do. In reality Draco wasn’t paying much attention to the lecture. He wrote without thought, his mind absently filing away the new information being taught to the class as he wrote in neat, flowing letters.  

+++

The potions dungeon was quiet aside from the scratching of quills and the deep, methodical voice of the tall man at the front of the room. Dusty sunbeams did their best to penetrate the gloom of the room from the tiny windows that lined the far back wall, but as the dungeon was vast and dank, they didn’t reach very far, certainly not to the front of the room where Hermione Granger sat next to Ginny, carefully taking notes. It was strange not to see Professor Snape at the front of this classroom, though the man who’d replaced him was similar in stature and passion for his subject. He was currently giving a detailed description of the correct procedure for concocting a Bereavement Beverage, a potion which was supposedly able to aid in helping people who had suffered a loss. In muggle terms, Hermione might have called it a Depression Draft. 

Though she’d never brewed it before, Hermione had heard the potion’s name tossed around often in the aftermath of the War. She was eager to learn how to make it herself, especially as the professor had indicated that diluted versions worked well as a general pick-me-up for people having a regular old-fashioned bad day. Having this recipe in her books might come in useful during final exam weeks in the future, she thought wryly, dipping her quill into her ink bottle and returning to the neatly scripted notes she always made. Just then, the heavy wooden door on the far right of the room creaked loudly, announcing a late-comer to the lesson. Hermione, along with the professor and half the class, turned curiously toward the door. 

Draco Malfoy strode into the room, his head held high and his shoulders back. His hair looked windswept and there was a hint of red on his cheeks, and Hermione found herself wondering what Malfoy had spent his lunch hour doing. He looked ruffled, which was uncommon enough, since, as long as she’d known him, Malfoy had always made a point to keep his person in impeccable order. Maybe he’d met up with that Slytherin girl from Herbology. What was her name again? Right, Sylvia. Not that it was any of her business what Malfoy did with his spare time. As she watched, Malfoy walked calmly to a table near the back of the room and sat down next to another boy from his House, barely acknowledging the professor when he frowned and deducted five points from Slytherin. Having always had Professor Snape in Potions in the past, Hermione felt slightly vindicated at hearing Malfoy lose points for once. He _had_ been late after all, it was only fair. 

The professor returned to his explanation but Hermione continued to watch Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He pulled his Potions book, parchment and quill, out of his bag, neatly arranging them on his table, pausing only briefly as the boy next to him leaned toward him and murmured something quietly, muffled behind his hand. Malfoy muttered something back, and then his gaze lifted from the desk, scanning the dim classroom until it landed on her. Their eyes locked and Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. Malfoy’s eyes were bright and watchful as he stared her down, and Hermione felt her heart beat a little faster. She wanted to look away but couldn’t; it took everything in her to keep her face blank. Just as the moment became unbearable though, Malfoy blinked, and looked away, ducking his head over his parchment as he began to take notes. The whole encounter had probably not lasted more than a few seconds, but Hermione still felt flushed and agitated. Hoping Ginny hadn’t noticed anything, she hurriedly returned to her own notes. 

The boy sitting next to Malfoy, however, wasn’t oblivious to this exchange. He made no obvious acknowledgement of the interaction between his desk-mate and the Granger girl, but his dark eyes flicked between them curiously before he, too, returned to his writing. 

+++ 

After the lesson finally ended, Hermione gathered her things together. The day had been a long one and she felt exhausted. Madam Pomfrey had warned her that she would probably feel weak for the next few days and that she shouldn’t push herself too hard, but Hermione couldn’t afford to slack off. This was her final year at Hogwarts and she needed to keep her nose to the grindstone. She was already worried that the year she’d been forced to take off to help Harry find and destroy the horcruxes had caused her to forget vital information from previous years at school. She had to work harder than ever this year in order to make up for it. 

Dinner was in less than an hour but Hermione ignored her rumbling stomach and headed toward the library. She’d skipped lunch in the great hall, not wanting to be on display for the rumour mill to gossip about, though she’d peeked into the hall as she’d passed, and hadn’t seen Malfoy there either. Maybe he’d been avoiding the running mouths of Hogwarts’ halls as well. She’d been surprised to see him in Potions that afternoon. Considering all the mutterings she’d heard in the hallways between classes, not to mention the constant speculation from Harry, Ron, and Ginny, Hermione had come to the conclusion that everyone was certain he’d somehow pulled off a jinx in the middle of Herbology. Despite all the apparent eye-witness accounts though, she just didn't feel right about assuming his guilt. She’d been the one to be careless, Malfoy hadn’t done anything. Well, perhaps not physically—as far as she could tell—but mentally, emotionally? That was another story. And one for a later date, she told herself firmly as she drew level with the library entrance and turned to shake off Ginny. 

“You said Madam Pomfrey told you not to go anywhere alone,” Ginny protested, looking stubborn as Hermione announced her decision to study before dinner. Alone. 

“Madam Pince will be there,” Hermione reminded her friend, trying to be patient. Ginny was a good friend, and very loyal, but she really wanted some time alone. 

Ginny frowned. “What if Malfoy shows up and tries to hex you again?” She cast her gaze around the long corridors that stretched past the stately library entrance, as if she expected the Slytherin boy to be lurking in a doorway, waiting to pounce. “Do you really think he’s given up his death eater ways?” 

Refusing to rise to this argument, one that she and Harry had debated against Ginny, Ron, and George often in the summer, Hermione forced her voice to remain cool, even slightly mocking. “Malfoy in the library?” she asked, her tone dripping incredulity. “I’m sure he’s far too busy reliving his glory days back in his dorm. Besides, Madam Pince won’t let him get away with anything. The woman has eyes like a hawk. In fact,” she added, pretending to consider something, “I bet she is a hawk. We should look her up on the animagus registry later.” 

Ginny hesitated, but eventually conceded that Hermione was right: it was unlikely for her to be harassed in the library. Hermione waved her off, trying not to let her relief show as she pushed open the library doors and slipped inside. Madam Pince wasn’t at her desk. Hermione expected that the librarian was either in the back or already on her way to the great hall for dinner. It didn’t matter to her either way as Hermione planned to skip dinner as well. She could always nip down to the kitchens later on and ask Dobby or Winky for a snack, as much as that thought might pain her. She hadn’t fully given up on her efforts for better rights for House Elves, but having learned in one of her History of Magic lessons that Helga Hufflepuff had recruited House Elves to work at Hogwarts in order to protect them from abusive owners, she had relaxed her stance against their employment, such as it was, a little bit. 

As Hermione made her way across the lobby of the library and started down one of the aisles, she basked in the silence. It was such a relief to be in a space where talking, especially gossiping, was all but forbidden. She loved the library. Its atmosphere was so relaxing, and after the last day and a half, Hermione needed a break. She’d been peppered with questions all day, both inside Gryffindor Tower and between classes. One person had insisted that they’d seen Draco Malfoy follow her into the Herbology supply closet just before her accident, another—like Ginny and the boys—had declared he’d pulled a wand on her when her back was turned. Everyone seemed determined that there was no way that Hermione Granger could possibly have messed up in class on her own. But she had. And what was worse, she hadn’t said anything to defend Malfoy. Not that anyone would have believed her if she had, but she still felt guilty just the same. 

When she turned the next corner, Hermione found that her feet had carried her absentmindedly back to the small study alcove that she and Malfoy had sat at the previous evening. There was no one there tonight though. With a sigh, she set her bag on the table and began to pull out her Herbology notes. Even if Ron claimed that the fungi they’d been studying had been tossed in the bin, Hermione still believed that learning the theory behind its defensive gas, and potential usefulness of the mushroom in potions, was itself worth knowing. 

She worked for an hour before before she heard the voices. Lifting her head and looking around, Hermione saw no one, and returned to her work, trying to concentrate. But it was only a few minutes later that the whispers drifted back to her, winding around her like a caress. Throwing down her quill and pushing back her chair, Hermione got to her feet and crossed to the end of the open space, peering around the shelves to see who was there. As she squinted tiredly around, the long aisles seemed to stretch and shrink before her eyes, many of them shrouded in shadows as Madam Pince was constantly putting out lanterns in unoccupied areas, afraid that they were a fire hazard. The whispers came again, just barely unintelligible, taunting Hermione with their nearly understood words. Feeling dazed and a little confused, she left her school things at the table and began to make her way down one of the long aisles, stumbling a little as her vision played tricks on her. 

The floor seemed to buckle as she made her way between the stacks, randomly bucking and pitching like waves on the lake, and Hermione found herself holding onto the shelves to steady herself as she kept moving. Still, the whispers seemed to tease her, and she kept going, bumping into a shelf once and knocking several volumes to the floor, though she barely noticed, stepping over them to keep going, following the voices like a wanderer in the woods chasing after a will-o-the-whisp. Something in the back of her mind nagged at her that she was chasing a fantasy, that the voices weren’t really there, but they sounded so real… 

She turned another corner and found herself at a dead end, the long aisle ending in a stained glass window. As Hermione crept closer to it, her robes swishing quietly around her, she wished she’d brought her wand, not left it on the table as a bookmark in her Herbology textbook. Casting a _Lumos_ charm would have been very helpful just then. As she turned in the ray of moonlight passing through the diamond patterned glass of the window at her back, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps. The whispers drifted away as she stood waiting, her ears straining against the suffocating quiet of the library, but she couldn’t hear anyone now, if indeed there had even been someone at all. 

“I must be hearing things,” she muttered to herself, feeling dizzy and rather foolish. Madam Pomfrey had warned her against such symptoms after all. Perhaps she should give up on studying for the night and go to bed early. She began to make her way back down the aisle, plucking at her robes as she went. She was suddenly feeling hot. Undoing the fastenings she let her robes gape open in the front, allowing the breeze generated by her quick walking to penetrate her uniform. 

She was halfway down the aisle when when the shadows rose up. 

Hermione stumbled to a halt, feeling her eyes grow wide with shock and rising panic. “It’s just my mind, it’s just my mind, it’s not real…” she muttered under her breath, even as her feet stumbled backward toward the window. 

_Hallucinations_ , Madam Pomfrey had said, she was just imagining things into the shadows, an after-effect of the gas she’d inhaled. The inky, slithering darkness was _not_ reaching for her. It _wasn’t_ wrapping long tentacles around her ankles. It wasn’t— 

She turned and fled, feet pounding against the faded carpets laid over the stone library floors as she raced away from the looming blackness, her voice stuck in her throat. A second set of footsteps joined hers, louder and more intense, but this time Hermione didn’t slow down to consider if they were real or imagined, she kept running. The window loomed suddenly in front of her and she skidded to a halt, twisting around and pressing her back against the cool stones of the wall. The running footsteps came closer and she fought for control, her breathing harsh in her own ears, her eyes rolling wildly as she tried to separate fiction from reality. 

A figure burst from the shadows and into the shaft of moonlight, and Hermione threw her arms in front of her, a scream ripping from her throat. Hands caught at her wrists, tugging them away from her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut in terror, trying to pull away but only succeeding in stumbling back into the wall, unintentionally yanking her attacker against her. 

She screamed again.

+++

Draco was nearly sick with hunger once classes were over. His stomach growled loudly as he and Blaise headed towards the Great Hall for dinner. Luckily the halls were overflowing with students, and the excited chatter around him drowned the rude noise out. Draco sat with a more familiar group of Slytherin’s courtesy of Blaise. At his approach, the students who had previously hung off of Draco’s every word only a year ago, turned to look at them. An array of emotions swept through them. First there was shock at seeing Blaise walking with Malfoy, then contempt as their eyes settled on the blond, looking him up and down with obvious distaste. Last there was shock again as Blaise cleared his throat, signalling for the students to make room for the both of them. 

Draco sat gracefully on the recently vacated seat, an uncomfortable silence settling around them. 

“So,” Blaise intoned, a hand gripping the handle of a ladle and pouring a savoury lemon cream sauce over a perfectly cooked fillet of salmon. “Any good gossip?” 

All eyes turned to Draco yet again, and none of them seemed inclined to speak. Draco realized it was because he was the source of the gossip floating around Hogwarts. 

“Ah,” Blaise said, picking up on the silence. “Draco steals the limelight yet again,” he said with feigned annoyance, which set the group to chuckling over their food.

Draco was tempted to defend himself, but he let it go, deciding that in time everyone would get to know this new Draco. No longer having to worry about showcasing what a proper Malfoy was, Draco was free to live his life as he wanted. He wished to know what it was to laugh without reserve, or share his troubles with people who truly cared for him. He desired having meaningful interactions with no aspirations beyond genuinely being interested in the other person’s life. He wasn’t sure he could have those things, but he would try. 

Around him the conversation was tentative but slowly building with momentum once they realized Blaise actually had intended for Draco to join them in normal dining activity. Draco ate slowly, cutting his food in neat little bites before each taste. But inside him, he felt a spark of anxiety begin to grow. He wasn’t sure what was the cause of the feeling, yet it grew in strength as he ate. He found each bite he took grew less and less enjoyable, his stomach no longer relishing the morsels. His appetite left him for the third time since his arrival at Hogwarts. Draco was beginning to think that maybe it was the cooking that disagreed with him. He started to fidget, his fingers swirling a fork through a mostly eaten scoop of fluffy potato mash. When he realized what he was doing Draco set his fork down, only to drum his fingers against the tabletop. 

Blaise was not one to miss anything, and he turned to Draco, his eyes noticing Draco’s restless fingers. “Somewhere you need to be?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Now that you mention it, there _is_ a bit of a project I’ve been working on,” Draco said, latching on to the excuse to escape the Great Hall. 

“Sounds interesting,” Blaise said after taking a drink from his goblet, his eyes sparking with curiosity. “What sort of project?” 

Draco lifted a shoulder. “Nothing too engrossing. Mostly extra credit work,” he said nonchalantly. 

Blaise looked away, abruptly bored. “Go on, then.” 

Draco stood with some haste and Blaise looked at him curiously. Draco slowed himself, grabbing his school bag at a more sedate speed. “See you later, Zabini,” he said as he turned away. He took a step, then hesitated, looking back at Blaise. “And…thanks. For…” he waved his hand indicating the space between them. 

Blaise dipped his head, his dark eyes registering surprise as Draco turned and left the Great Hall. 

Draco thought that leaving the Great Hall would calm him, having assumed that the uncomfortable atmosphere had been the reason behind his jitters, but if anything the feeling grew as he left the Great hall. He walked towards the grounds, thinking that maybe another go around he pitch would help, but he wound up at the entrance to the Library instead. He paused, staring up at the Latin phrase carved into the marble above the doors, confused as to why he had walked here when he knew he could find his way to the grounds with his eyes closed any other time. Somehow it felt right. With a small shake of his head Draco entered the Library, the smell of old parchment assaulting his senses. He breathed in deeply, bypassing Madam Pince where she stood glowering at him behind her station. Instead he wandered the isles, occasionally touching the spine of a book or pulling one from its home on a shelf, its pages opening with puff of stale air, sometimes even a groan if the book was so inclined. 

He thought about Blaise’s suddenly warm reception to him that day. It had been so sudden that Draco was sure there was something more to it than simply wanting to rekindle an old friendship. Draco’s reputation couldn’t have improved much from its standing over the summer to now, so he knew that Blaise wasn’t operating under the impression that it was now socially acceptable to associate with Draco. Which meant there was something to be gained from being seen talking to Draco, or so Blaise thought. Did Blaise know that Draco and Granger had worked together that first night? Had he seen Draco approach her in the supply closet and meant to use the information to blackmail him in some way? He wouldn’t put it past the boy, but Draco couldn’t think of what he had that Blaise might want. He probably wanted to use the information to embarrass Draco somehow, or turn Hogwarts against him. Not that anyone favoured him in any way. 

Dinner had been innocuous enough, Blaise giving him an in back into his old circle of friends. He had not encouraged talk of the rumours about Draco when he could easily have used the moment to back Draco into a corner and humiliate him. Blaise had even gone so far as to include Draco in the conversation when appropriate, not forcing Draco to interact with the others, but presenting the opening if he wished to engage. He supposed he would just have to wait and see how the Blaise situation progressed. Short of hiring a fortuneteller, there was nothing much Draco could do to figure it all out. 

Draco stopped as he heard a soft thump further into the stacks. He held his breath, his ears straining against silence around him, but he heard nothing more. He rolled his eyes, letting his breathing return to normal as he continued on. Before long he saw the flickering, shadowy light of a fireplace, and a familiar set of tables came into view. The chairs sat vacant but the same could not be said for the table. As he drew closer, Draco saw that there were parchments with neatly scripted notes spread across it, books open to random pages. With a start, Draco realized that he knew the bag that sat open-mouthed on the table next the stacks of books. It was Granger’s bag! 

He stood there, staring down at the obvious evidence of Granger’s study session, and wondered why she had chosen to come back here of all places. Draco vaguely knew Granger preferred a spot closer to the front of the Library. He had avoided her plenty of times over the years on his way back to this very spot. So why had she come here to study? Had she hoped to find him here, and, upon seeing the area vacant, decided to stay in case he made an appearance later in the evening? Maybe she wanted to talk about the rumours, find out for herself what had happened. Draco felt himself smile softy at the thought as he picked up the book with a wand wedged between its pages. He was fully able to imagine a puffed up Granger stabbing one of her slender fingers into his chest, demanding to know exactly what had transpired yesterday in Herbology. 

But where was she? Draco carefully placed the thick tome back on the table and looked around him, spinning slowly to survey his surroundings. It was odd that she had left her wand behind. Even a first year knew to keep his wand on him at all times, Muggleborn or no. It was one of the first lessons you learned at Hogwarts, the importance of having it handy a point that was stressed by the Heads of Houses once the students were sorted on their first night. So why was it left behind? 

“Granger?” he hissed into the quiet, and waited. No reply came. The wood in the fire gave a loud crack and Draco pirouetted, thinking it was Granger returning. His heart leapt in a confusing mix of trepidation and excitement, only to find he was still alone. There came another noise to his right in the opposite direction from which he had entered the area. It sounded like someone running. Immediately he thought of Granger. She might be in trouble. With her wand left behind there wasn’t much she could do to defend herself against an attack. Almost without thought Draco pocketed her wand and took off towards the clamour. 

He had stopped several times, trying to work out exactly where the noise was coming from, muted as it was by the towering rows of books, but eventually he could hear those footsteps not too far away. He heard the runner turn a corner and he wasn’t too far behind. As he rounded the corner Draco could finally see a figure ahead, robes billowing around him as he ran. No, not a _he_ , a _she_ , Draco realized as he drew nearer and the figure spun wildly around, hair flying as she faced him. 

Was that Granger? 

Draco skidded to a halt before her, the light from the window blinding him just for an instant as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Granger looked up at him without really seeing him, her face warped with fear, and she screamed. Her hands lifted to shield herself from a danger known only to her. 

Draco suddenly knew what was going on as Madam Pomfrey’s voice echoed in his head, “… _dizziness, hallucinations_ …” Granger was having an episode. 

“Granger!” Draco yelled, but his voice was lost as Granger’s scream rang. He grabbed her wrists, yanking them away from her face so that she could see that it was only he, Draco. She continued to struggle, her eyes shut tight against him. She was strong, but she was no match for him, and he held fast as she exerted herself, her efforts pulling him flush against her. “Granger!” Still she screamed. Draco felt awful watching her thrash where they had stumbled against the wall. “Hermione!” He let go of her wrists, instead placing his hands on her shoulders, which trembled in his grip. He gave her a sharp jerk, not enough to hurt her, but hopefully enough to jar her back to reality. “Hermione, please, it’s me, Draco! You’re all right! You’re safe. I won’t hurt you, no one is going to hurt you!” 

Beneath his hands Draco could feel her quaking, but the screaming stopped. Her hands, which had taken to beating weakly against his chest, stilled and her eyes blinked open to search his face. Slowly they cleared, the shadows that had plagued them retreating as recognition took their place. “M-Malfoy?” she stuttered, her body still tensed to flee. 

Draco nearly sagged with relief. “Yes, it’s me. Malfoy,” he confirmed, still apprehensive. 

She shook her head, blinking rapidly as her mind cleared further. “What—what happened?” 

“I think you were having a hallucination just now,” Draco said softly, as his eyes flickered across her face, reading her reaction. She still looked fearful, but she was no longer under the grip of her delusion. When Draco had first seen the look on Granger’s face, how utterly horrified she’d been as she stood cowering against the wall, Draco had feared the worst, that she actually was being attacked by someone. He had, in that brief moment, been ready to defend her against anything. When he realized what was actually going on his relief had quickly fallen prey to worry. She could hurt herself if she carried on running through the library like she had been. Draco was just happy it was he who had found her, and not someone who wished her actual harm. 

“Maybe you should sit down,” he suggested, but didn’t move, unsure if she could stand on her own if he left her to it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Something had a hold of her, prying her arms away from her face, forcing her to lower what feeble protection she had been attempting. Visions of all manner of terrors, from Dementors to Death Eaters, flashed through her addled mind, and all logic fled from Hermione Granger’s usually cool and rational brain. All that remained was the knowledge that she was trapped, wandless, against this stone wall, and panic rose up sharp and primal within her. She screamed again, pulling desperately against whatever, or whomever, had a hold of her… but she couldn’t tug free. On some deeper level of understanding she knew that the shadows chasing her weren’t corporeal, therefore, whoever had just backed her into a corner had to be human, not ghost or ghoul; but knowing this wasn’t much of a comfort. If anything, it might have terrified her more. 

“Granger!” 

Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, Hermione thought she heard someone calling her name. She strained against the grip of her assailant; he was taller than her, and hunched over her as she struggled, blocking out the light of the moon. Fear choked her and she bit off her next scream as the unknown boy forced her to stay pressed against the wall, blocking any chance at escape. He was stronger than her, too much stronger, she couldn’t break free.

The thing about utter, absolute, terror is that your body shuts down. You lose all ability to think or reason beyond two words: fight or flight. When your body refuses to chose between the two, instead mashing both options together, the result is a mental meltdown similar to the irrational fits someone in an institution might suffer from. Hermione could feel her heart beating so fast in her chest that her lungs couldn’t keep up. The resultant lack of oxygen to her brain was causing blackness to seep in at the edges of her sight. She gasped for air, terrified tears blurring her vision whenever she chanced to open her eyes.

“Hermione!”

Suddenly her wrists were free. But before she could make use of this fact, the hands that had held them slid up to grip her shoulders. Hermione’s own hands rose automatically, shoving pathetically against the chest of the boy holding her, his grip unyielding. The fingers on her shoulders tightened almost painfully, then abruptly the boy shook her once, sharply. She let out a startled whimper, her wild eyes drawn upward toward the face of her captor. 

“Hermione, please, it’s me, Draco!”

It was _who_? Draco?? Who was…was…wait…? Did she know someone with that name?

“You’re all right! You’re safe…” The words were forceful, insistent, but edged with panic.

_Safe_? As the word flitted across her mind the hands on her shoulders gentled, the fingers loosening their grip so that they no longer held her with the power to confine, now they simply… held her. 

“I won’t hurt you, no one is going to hurt you!” This time the words the boy in front of her spoke were low, firm. A promise.

Slowly reason began to return, and with it Hermione felt the irrational panic that had laced her veins like an unexpected poison, begin to recede. She blinked up into wide grey eyes, their pupils blown wide. His normally pale face was bleached still whiter in the light of the moon. As her heart rate slowed, Hermione could feel a violent trembling seize hold of her body; she forced a single word past shaking lips. It sounded small in the darkness. “M-Malfoy?”

Because she was staring at his face so closely, Hermione saw the way Draco Malfoy’s tense expression relaxed at her child-like query, but he still looked shaken as he confirmed he was who she thought he was. 

“What—what happened?” Again the words sounded small and frightened, even to Hermione’s own ears. The fog of delusion was fading away, leaving behind a throbbing headache and sense of complete exhaustion. 

Malfoy hadn’t released her once he realized she was lucid again, but he moved back a few inches, just enough so that she didn’t feel quite so penned in against the wall. When she spoke, he frowned at her, running his gaze over her body as if checking for damage. “I think you were having a hallucination,” he said quietly, still staring down at her with that intense, worried gaze. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Despite Malfoy’s suggestion, neither of them moved at first. Hermione’s sluggish memory was slowly grinding back into gear. A hallucination. Madam Pomfrey had warned her that this might happen. She should have stayed in the hospital wing another night, maybe longer. But she’d felt fine. Well, mostly fine. She’s been a little shaky and tired, but the potion Madam Pomfrey had given her that morning had pushed the worst of those feelings away. Still, maybe she shouldn’t have left. Across from her, Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and as if he could read her thoughts, he asked her just that.

“Why aren’t you still in the hospital wing, Granger?” he asked abruptly, his voice sharp, almost angry. His eyes narrowed further as he glared down at her. “You of all people should know how stupid it is prance about like you’re fine when you’re not. Is this some ridiculous Gryffindor bravery thing? Because it wasn’t brave to run off like that, Granger. You could have been hurt. What if someone else had found you there, out of your mind and raving like a lunatic? You left your wand in your textbook, for Merlin’s sake! Even first years know better than that!” 

Malfoy’s voice was hard, a feat matched by his hands which had tightened their grip on Hermione’s shoulders once again, causing her to flinch away from him, trying to squirm out of his grip without making it seem too obvious that she was doing so. Malfoy’s sharp eyes missed nothing though, and he broke off his angry rant abruptly, quickly pulling his hands off her. She took a step to the side, putting some space between them, as she tried to rally an appropriately scathing retort. This was a Malfoy she could deal with: anger and insults. She wasn’t sure what the other Malfoy had been, the one of a few minutes prior, who had stared down at her as if she had scared him somehow.

“I wasn’t being noble,” she snapped, averting her gaze and swiping at her tear-streaked cheeks, trying to dry them surreptitiously while she straightened her clothes. Her robes were hanging off one shoulder from her delusion-fuelled struggle with Malfoy. “I thought I was fine.”

There came a derisive snort from the Slytherin boy’s direction and she thought she heard him mutter something that sounded like, “Typical Gryffindor.” Her hackles rose. 

“I can handle myself,” she hissed, the words ringing false in her ears even as she said them. She didn’t know what would have happened if Malfoy hadn’t shown up. She may have just succumbed to the horror of her hallucinations and passed out on the stone floor. “I didn’t ask you follow me around,” she added, the venom in her words more than the circumstances warranted, pushed over the edge of reason by the humiliation of the whole situation. 

Malfoy took a step back from her, the faintest flinch the only sign that her words had had any effect on him at all. But before he could say anything in retaliation, a third set of footsteps sounded, the sharp staccato of high heels in the next aisle over from where they stood. Both their heads turned as a new person stepped out of the shadows.

“What in the name of sanity is going on back here?” screeched the reedy voice of Hogwarts’ head librarian, the owner of it skidding to a halt a few feet away, glaring at the pair of them. “This is a place of learning!” Madam Pince hissed, her shoulders hunched like a hawk. “I expect silence and respect! Not students running all over the place, knocking books off shelves… Mr. Malfoy, I warned you I wouldn’t stand for you causing shenanigans this year—” Madam Pince paused suddenly, and squinted over her glasses, as if she’d just noticed Malfoy wasn’t alone. “Miss— Miss Granger?” she asked uncertainly, as if the shock of seeing her favourite student mixed up with a ruckus-causing bad boy like Draco Malfoy had completely derailed her train of thought. After a few seconds she attempted to rally herself. “I thought I heard someone scream,” she said, her voice harder than it normally was, her beady eyes fixed on Malfoy. 

Hermione found herself taking a step forward, drawing the librarian’s attention, almost before she was a aware of deciding to move. “That was me, Madam Pince.”

Both Malfoy and the librarian turned to look at her with identical looks of apprehension, though likely not for identical reasons. 

“Y-you, Miss Granger…?”

Hermione hurried on before Madam Pince could ask her any direct questions, hoping she’d managed to make herself presentable again in the last few minutes. “Yes, I was looking for a book for Herbology and I accidentally opened a copy of the Battle Cry of the Republic. It certainly lived up to its name,” she added grimly, giving Madam Pince a look that she hoped conveyed charm with a mix of chagrin. 

The librarian stared at Hermione for a long moment, as if processing her words. Eventually, it seemed, she couldn’t find anything amiss with Hermione’s story so she turned her frown on Malfoy once more. “I hope you weren’t causing Miss Granger any trouble,” she said sternly, and Malfoy’s eyes narrowed though he said nothing. “She’s a smart girl, a hard worker.”

Hermione could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her as Madam Pince warned him away, and hastened to convince the old woman that she could go. “He wasn’t bothering me, Madam Pince. We were about to leave. It’s almost curfew, isn’t it?” She had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t matter. Madam Pince eyed them a moment longer, than, with one last glare at Malfoy, nodded curtly.

“Be sure to stack your books on the library trollies for the house elves to re-shelve before you go,” she said tartly, then turned and stalked back into the stacks, leaving Hermione alone with Malfoy once more.

“You lied to a teacher,” came Malfoy’s cool, drawling voice, as she turned back around. He hadn’t straightened his own robes after their struggle, but they’d settled mostly back into place as he lounged against a bookshelf. His expression was unreadable as he looked at her. “I’d almost be impressed if you hadn’t done it for an idiotic reason.”

Saying nothing, Hermione turned to leave. Her legs still felt shaky but she longed for the cheerful fire next to her work table, anything but this dark alcove and the lingering shadows. 

+++

They stood, not moving as they faced each other, Granger’s eyes low as she worked through her thoughts. The longer Draco watched her, the angrier he got. He thought of all the things that could have happened to Granger while she was out of her mind. Draco wasn’t the only ex-Death Eater to return to Hogwarts, but he was certainly the most reformed one. If anyone of those other students had found her—!

“Why aren’t you still in the hospital wing, Granger?” he berated her, unable to stop the tirade of words from spilling from his mouth. He was worried about her, about her lack of judgment. Draco wasn’t familiar with having such concern for anyone but his parents, and he knew they could take care of themselves. There was never really much of a risk for them, or Draco, if he were honest. His father’s connections ran deep, and though the Malfoys were disgraced now, they’d been allowed to keep most of their wealth, Lucius somehow wriggling like the slippery eel he was out of the vengeful grip of the Ministry. But that was his father. Granger, on the other hand had no such pull or presence, not against vindictive Death Eater spawn who had lost someone precious to the war. 

“I wasn’t being noble. I thought I was fine!” she said defensively as she cleared her cheek of tears. Draco felt his anger soften at how fragile she looked just then, and just as quickly it hardened. Fragile, not invincible as she apparently thought herself to be. She defeats one Dark Lord and suddenly she thinks she can take on the whole world. 

“Typical Gryffindor,” he said lowly to himself. 

Granger had heard him. Her eyes flashed as she pierced him with a look of pure acidity. “I can handle myself; I didn’t ask you to follow me around.” 

Draco stepped back, his face blanking as her words hit him. He felt his walls slam into place, his blood running cold in his veins. He had left himself open to her criticism. And she was right. Draco should have just turned and left when he realized whose things he’d stumbled upon. Had he thought himself some kind of hero, tearing through the library like a maniac to try to, what, save someone? Fat lot of good that did him. Granger hadn’t wanted or needed his help after all. This probably wasn’t her first hallucination; she probably thought to just let it run its course. Draco’s presence had only exacerbated the fantasy into something she couldn’t control. Still, her comment smarted.

Footsteps approached and Draco felt his heart sink as he recognized the sharp staccato heels of Madam Pince as she stepped into the moonlight. “What in the name of sanity is going on here?” Her voice was as shrill as ever, like nails driving into his ears. Her eyes quickly fell to him as Draco stood there, arms hanging limply by his side. She started in on him and Draco crossed his arms over his chest as she lectured, waiting for her to realize that he wasn’t alone. 

Her tirade halted once she saw Granger was present as well. “Miss—Miss Granger?” 

Draco shifted on his feet his eyes flickering up to the ceiling, jaw clenched at how quickly Madam Pince’s tone changed from stern admonishment to uncertainty at Hermione’s involvement. Draco alone spelled trouble, but with Hermione there the librarian had cause to doubt her initial assessment. He wasn’t surprised that she, once again, assumed the worst of him. The tune was an old one, and growing more ancient by the minute. It was exhausting. Again, before he could retort, he was interrupted. Would he get to speak his piece at all that evening, he wondered incredulously, but his laments were dashed away when Granger spoke, stepping forward. 

“That was me Madam Pince,” she said contritely. 

Draco was surprised Granger hadn’t immediately accused Draco of causing the disruption. The way she had spoken to him only moments before had presented a side of Granger Draco rarely saw. Sure he had been an arse his whole school career, but he had been hardly much of a threat, his pranks more on the childish side. They had no bite to them. And in later years he had been too busy trying to save his own skin to worry much about what it was Granger or the others were up to. So to see those usually bright, cheery brown eyes look at him in such a way had startled him. Draco always had brought the worst out in people. His father was always on the brink of despising him, finding Draco too soft or too immature or too clumsy to really live up to the Malfoy standards. Crabbe and Goyle could have both been decent students if Draco hadn’t dragged them into his foolish games. Draco had tutors to fill in the gaps of his education, but he knew those two could barely afford to attend Hogwarts. And now one of them was dead. 

It was only a matter of time until he brought out the worst in Granger as well. She lied readily enough when pressed by Madam Pince. The lie was a terrible one, even by Gryffindor standards, but Madam Pince didn’t question it, instead turning to reprimand Draco again, despite Granger’s lie. The unfairness of it hardly fazed him, and he didn’t satisfy Madam Pince with a reply, instead nodding. She left with one last bit of advice. It was a grossly mundane thing to say in light of what had actually ensued before her arrival. If she’d known the truth of what really happened, she’d have whisked Granger off to the hospital where she belonged. Draco was almost tempted to call the woman back and explain the truth of what had happened, at least then Granger would get the attention she needed, but that would be too much like caring for his liking. 

“You lied to a teacher,” he said as he settled his weight against a bookshelf. “I’d almost be impressed if you hadn’t done it for an idiotic reason.” He was curious why she was dead set against going back to the hospital wing. Was she so afraid of showing weakness? What point did she have to prove? Clearly she thought little of Draco, so it wasn’t as though she felt she had to keep up appearances for him, he thought bitterly, his mouth twisting down as she ignored him. She looked unsteady on her feet but she did not ask for his help. What was it with this girl? Why was she so stubborn? 

But it was obvious, wasn’t it, that it was Draco who was being the stubborn one. How many times did he have to be rebuffed by Granger before he got the picture? She wanted nothing to do with him. Or at least she didn’t want to become friends. That would have been fine with Draco, except he found it impossible to leave her alone. He had had every intention of clearing his mind on the pitch after dinner, however his feet had carried him to Granger’s exact location. He’d somehow happened to be there to snap her out of her phantasms when they’d struck her. He had to wonder how that feat had come to pass. _It doesn’t matter_ , Draco thought as he watched her walk away. _She’s just not interested_. 

“At least let Potter and Weasley know what happened,” he called after her as he pushed away from the bookcase, his hands balled into fists at his side. It was the only sign of his distress, his face still empty of emotion. “Maybe they can offer you some help since you refuse to accept mine,” he added tartly. She stopped at his words, her face barely visible where she stood, her body slightly angled toward him. Draco remembered that he still had her wand in his pocket. “You might want this,” he said as he approached, his slow steps belying his lack of concern. The old Draco would have kept the wand and used it as leverage to get back at Granger for her hateful accusation. The new Draco would have insisted upon making sure she got up to her rooms safely, wand securely back in her possession. But this Draco, this walled off, frosty man he conjured whenever his emotions became too much for him to handle, felt no such urge. He had no desire to be accused of more wrongdoing and so handed over her wand with a studied impassivity. 

She took it, her expression still hardened as she looked up at him, probably trying to gauge whether or not Draco was trying to slight her. She settled on being offended, probably finding his words condescending. “Didn’t you hear me earlier, Malfoy? I’m not some damsel in need of rescuing.” She said the words with conviction. “Save your propriety for someone who needs it.” 

Draco scoffed, his blank expression melting into incredulity. If anyone needed his so-called propriety it was she. The way he saw it, Granger was determined to put herself in harms way. “Fine,” he bit out.“But,” and here he hesitated, looking off to the side. “You ought to be more careful,” he finished weakly. It was easy to not care, Draco had done so in many instances when even a small amount of concern would have helped someone. The more challenging path lay in showing that he felt for a person. In order to change Draco would have to risk his feelings being disregarded, even if it hurt, even if he didn’t know how to deal with the emotions such vulnerability would inspire. He had to learn to deal with them in order to become a better person. In just a few days Granger had become worth that gamble. He didn’t know how she did it, but she had. 

He wanted to fight for the potential of their camaraderie. Maybe Granger didn’t see it yet, but Draco knew that together they could accomplish great things. It was true that Draco carried the guilt of distracting her in Herbology, that it was, by default, his fault that she was poisoned and ailed by the effects of the fungus’ gas. But he was sure they could get past the awkwardness and mistrust to become allies. Yes, he would fight for it, even if Draco was left to pull himself back together if it ended in disaster. He was tired of being alone and friendless. If things didn’t work out between them so be it. At least he would have given it his all. He would have no regrets, or wonder if maybe it could have turned out differently if he had just tried. 

“It’s late,” Granger said into the silence, and Draco looked back to her, feeling exposed and raw after his reflections. “I’ll see if anyone is nearby to walk with me. You’re right, I probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Draco dipped his head in acquiescence, noticing that her tie rested askew against her chest. He was struck with the odd urge to reach up and straighten it for her, his hand lifting as if to do just that before he caught himself, fingers curling as he let it drop to his side. She would probably tear his hand right off if he attempted such an intimate act. She still looked a bit on edge and Draco valued his extremities. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, an almost imperceptible warning hidden in his tone. 

+++

Hermione had taken two steps before Malfoy called after her, his tone frustrated, though it seemed like he was making a valiant effort to sound like he didn’t really care what she thought of his words. She stopped walking, turning just enough so that she could watch him out of the corner of her eye as Malfoy unlatched himself from the bookshelf he’d been leaning against. He now stood in the centre of the aisle, his arms at his sides, fingers curled into fists. 

“At least let Potter and Weasley know what happened. Maybe they can offer you some help since you refuse to accept mine.” 

Hermione felt herself stiffen at Malfoy’s admonishment, as if she needed looking after. Telling Harry and Ron that she’d skived off from the hospital wing early because she didn’t want to miss classes and then had a breakdown in the library? Right, that would go over well. Ron would probably roll his eyes and tell her that too much studying wasn’t good for her and she only had herself to blame, though she knew he would still be concerned about her health. Ron did care about her, even if he showed it in convoluted ways. Harry would probably be more sympathetic to her wanting to spend as little time as possible in the hospital wing as she could, having spent far too much time there himself, but he’d also probably go into Big Brother mode and start tailing her between classes to make sure she was okay. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that they were boys, but despite the fact that Harry and Ron were her two best friends, Hermione hated the idea of them thinking her weak and incapable. 

She was about to turn back without responding to Malfoy’s words, but he took a step closer to her, his hand slipping into the pocket of his robes and pulling something out. He approached her languidly, his manner a study of unconcern. Curious, despite herself, she turned to face him fully as he held out the object he’d been carrying. “You might want this,” Malfoy said cooly, his expression closed, every inch a Slytherin prince once more. 

He held her wand in his outstretched hand, graceful fingers wrapped around the smooth wood. His hold was loose, however, and Hermione was able to retrieve it with no resistance, trying not to dwell on the way the grip was still warm from where Malfoy had recently held it as she quickly slid it into her own pocket. Malfoy had brought her wand to her. He’d seen it with her books, snapped at her for leaving it behind like an ignorant child, but brought it too her nonetheless. Maybe he’d thought she was in trouble, as surely someone like Hermione Granger wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave her wand laying around; he’d been right, and she had been foolish. And it was these thoughts that founded her waspish retort to Malfoy’s smooth, vaguely mocking words. 

“Didn’t you hear me earlier, Malfoy? I’m not some damsel in need of rescuing.” She hated that he’d been right. Hated that she’d shown weakness in front of him of all people, in front of the boy who’d mocked her for years, who now seemed to be doing it again, chasing after her in a manner that was undignified according to his class. Why had he even been here tonight? She’d thought surely after all the rumours flying around the castle that Malfoy wouldn’t have chanced coming to the library, the one place everyone expected her to be. But she’d been the one to go to the alcove Madam Pince had told her was Malfoy’s particular favourite place, even when her usual spot was much easier to get to. Shoving this memory aside, Hermione narrowed her eyes at Malfoy, who was still watching her with a shuttered expression. “Save your propriety for someone who needs it.”

These words did it, she could tell, as Malfoy straightened, his grey eyes flashing in the dim light, a characteristic sneer twisting his fine-boned features. “Fine,” he growled, his voice low and tinged with anger.

For a moment neither of them said anything, both breathing a little faster from their argument, glares clashing in midair. Then Hermione turned on her heel and began to stalk down the aisle in a good impression of Madam Pince, her head held high. She couldn’t handle talking to Malfoy any more tonight. The boy was infuriating. One minute he was shaking her, demanding to know if she was okay, and the next he’d returned to his usual snide remarks and condescending attitude. His changing moods were giving her whiplash. But, a tiny voice in the back of her mind reminded her, Malfoy wasn’t the one who thought he could handle debilitating delusions on his own. And he could have just left her there, twitching and screaming in the dark. The old Malfoy would have done just that, if not worse. The new Malfoy had run straight for her and talked her through her fears, holding her and making sure she didn’t hurt herself. Hermione was visited with another thought then: when had she started thinking about the Slytherin boy in this context? Old vs New? Had he really changed so much?

Also, he’d called her Hermione. Of course, he’d gone back to calling her Granger as soon as he thought she was back in her right mind, but still… what had made him do it in the first place? This memory was so startling, having been shunted aside in the flurry of their argument and Madam Pince’s arrival, that Hermione almost didn’t hear the next words Malfoy said. 

“But,” she heard him say, sounding like the words were slipping out past his will, “you ought to be more careful.” 

Guilt shot through Hermione at these words. Malfoy was still glaring at her—well, somewhere just to the side of her face, anyway—but something about his mouth had softened as he spoke, and she felt her heart give a queer little thump. Shoving the strange reaction aside, she decided to meet Malfoy’s treaty with words of her own. 

“It’s late,” she said, her voice steady though she could feel her body still trembling faintly. She tilted her chin up and met Malfoy’s eyes, he returned her gaze steadily and she hurried on. “I’ll see if anyone is nearby to walk with me. You’re right, I probably shouldn’t be alone right now.” Something told her that if she’d asked it of him, Malfoy would have walked her back to Gryffindor Tower himself, and damn what anyone thought of him for doing it; even now he looked like he was torn between grabbing her elbow and marching her up to her Common Room or just leaving her to reap the reward of her own stupidity here in the library. His expression changed, and she watched as he lifted his right arm, his fingers twitching as if he meant to do just that, but he seemed to catch himself, withdrawing his hand almost before it was noticeable. Almost. 

“I’ll hold you too that,” he said lowly instead, and she could hear the unmistakable warning in his voice as she turned and hurried back up the aisle, weaving only a little as she forced her still unsteady legs to move. 

+++

Though she didn’t see Malfoy after she emerged from the stacks and out into the cheerily lit study area where her books and bag still lay untouched, aside from the now closed Herbology text where she’d left her wand, Hermione could feel his eyes on her. She felt on edge, all her nerves stretched and singing, taunt as wires. As she packed away her things, she could feel the ghost of Malfoy’s hands gripping her wrists, her shoulders, hear the silent echo of her name on his lips. Her true name. One only her closest friends used. She and Malfoy weren’t friends. Though she found she could no longer call him her enemy. Acquaintances seemed closer, yet that wasn’t the right fit either. Their relationship was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, slowly wearing down the sharp corners with each twist it took.

Once she was organized, Hermione shouldered her school bag and cast a last look around the alcove. Malfoy still hadn’t appeared, and she wondered if he’d chosen to take another path to the exit to avoid her. It took some concentration, but she managed to keep her gaze from wandering as she made her way slowly to the front of the library. Madam Pince was seated behind her desk as Hermione drew near the doors, and she could feel the librarian’s hard stare on her back. The grandfather clock across from the checkout desk ticked loudly in the overpowering silence that draped the room like a shroud, drawing Hermione’s eyes to the fact that it was 7:45PM. 

In keeping with her promise to Malfoy, Hermione glanced around at the few remaining students still scattered around the study tables arranged in the open commons area at the front of the room. She could see Terry Boot and Hannah Abbot whispering together in a corner, their voices low as not to attract the wrath of the librarian a stone’s throw from their table; Michael Corner and a group of six or seven boys were grouped around a table on the furthest side of the commons, Michael perched on the edge of the table with his listeners sitting or standing around him, all intent on whatever he was telling them in a voice too quiet for Hermione to make out; and a tall, stately-looking Slytherin boy, who was apparently on his way out. He strolled casually toward the doors, stopping just before their paths would cross, allowing her to pass first. His expression was mild, though his eyes tracked her as she made to move past him; when he spoke, his voice was just as calm and collected as the rest of him.

“I guess no one should be surprised to see you already back in the library, Granger,” he observed, and Hermione stopped walking to glance over her shoulder at the boy. His tone wasn’t antagonizing, only stating the obvious, like it was a fact that couldn’t be denied. “I guess it’ll take more than a mushroom to keep you away from your studies.” His mouth tipped up at one side, as if the idea amused him on some level. 

Hermione frowned slightly, unsure what to say in response to this statement, even as she tried to remember the boy’s name. He was a popular Slytherin boy, that much she knew, she could recall him often being surrounded by many admirers over the years. What was his name again? Zucchini? Anyway, he was on his own now; it looked like he’d been studying by himself. Shifting her bag on her shoulder and surreptitiously flickering her gaze around the room beyond him, Hermione gave a little shrug, feeling vaguely unsettled as he continued to watch her with that odd little smile. 

“I don’t intend to fall behind just because of a little accident,” she said stiffly, finally spying a fellow Gryffindor gathering her things together, and trying not to sag with relief. 

“Good for you, Granger,” the boy drawled, his eyes glittering, though his expression was still mild. “And I hope you don’t have any other little _accidents_ this year. I want you around when NEWT season arrives; I could use the challenge.” He turned then and sauntered off, leaving Hermione standing alone, feeling confused by their whole exchange. After a few seconds she shook the odd feeling off and waved to Lavender Brown who’d just gotten to her feet. 

“Heading back to the Tower?” she asked Lavender as the other girl drew level with where Hermione stood. When Lavender nodded, Hermione forced herself to smile. They weren’t close friends, but Lavender would do for the journey back to her dorm. “Me too. Let’s go together.” And the two girls headed out of the library side by side.

+++

Draco nearly collided with Blaise as he entered the main study. His long legs had carried him quickly through the aisle, his mind occupied. It was a near thing, their collision, and even then Draco had had to grab the other boy by the arms and spin them both to consume the momentum he’d gathered along the way. 

“Draco,” Blaise purred, his dark eyes blinking coquettishly at him. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” 

Draco rolled his eyes but had to laugh. “Shove it, Zabini,” he said, releasing the man. He straightened his robes almost without thought. “What are you doing in the Library? I didn’t know you knew what a Library was.”

“Well, I can’t _just_ be good looks, can I?” Blaise drawled, running a large hand through a head of dark curls, the ringlets springing back into place once his fingers passed over them. “Heading back to the dorms? I’ll walk with you,” he offered. 

Draco would have preferred to walk alone so that he could think, but he didn’t so much mind Blaise’s company. After his back and forth with Granger, talking to a fellow Slytherin in terms he could understand would be a relief. The forthrightness of a Gryffindor was different than that of a Slytherin. With Gryffindors, their honestly left them exposed, their hearts on their sleeves. Interacting with them called for the same type of vulnerability in return. That made Draco uncomfortable. With a Slytherin, blunt words were an external affair, meant to lay bare whomever they addressed. It required no sacrifice on the part of the speaker. They could ignore such inconveniences as feelings. Sometimes the thought of _feelings_ made Draco’s skin crawl. 

“I saw Granger leaving not long ago,” Blaise said offhandedly. 

Well, if Draco expected this conversation to go any easier, he was wrong. “And?” Draco said, cutting a look over at the boy walking beside him. 

“And then I saw you.” Blaise continued, subtlety apparently not of interest to him today. 

“Fascinating,” Draco said, bored. They had reached the cluster of stairs that would take them deeper into the bowels of Hogwarts. “Is there a point, here, Zabini?” 

Blaise chuckled, “Is there, Draco?” 

Draco played ignorant; knowing exactly what Blaise was getting at. He wanted the boy to say it plainly, to put to words what it was he thought the connection was between Draco and Granger. “Blaise,” Draco murmured, unconsciously giving in to the temptation to use Zabini’s first name. “I’m tired and I don’t have the energy. What are you asking?” 

Not missing a beat, Blaise spoke. “Are you hooking up with Granger?” 

Draco’s foot slipped on the edge of a stair and he had to throw out a hand to catch himself on the stair railing. “What?” exclaimed Draco, whipping around to look at Blaise once he righted himself. He knew the boy assumed something was going on, but hadn’t expected Blaise to jump to such a farfetched conclusion. 

Blaise’s smile was nauseatingly satisfied. “I see the way you look at her when you think no one is paying attention.” 

Draco flushed despite his best efforts. Did he look at Granger in any particular way? He didn’t think so. He might look at her way too often, his body thrumming with the awareness of her proximity, but he didn’t think he mooned over her or anything. “Just listen to yourself, Zabini. I’m Draco Malfoy, she’s Hermione Granger. You’re delusional if you think anything like that could happen between us. Although,” Draco looked at Blaise suspiciously, eyes narrowed, “You always have been…odd.” 

“I see what you’re trying to do, and I won’t let you,” Blaise retorted with equally narrowed eyes, a smirk firmly in place. “You’re deflecting. Look at you, you’re blushing like a school girl. If I’m not absolutely right, then I’m pretty damned close judging by your reaction.” 

“You’re absolutely wrong, Blaise.” Not only would Granger not give him the time of day, but she was clearly so very cozy with that redhead weasel she favoured. “I was just thinking,” he hesitated, hoping it looked believable. “I was thinking maybe she could help me this year for my NEWTs. I just didn’t know how to approach her,” he said, giving Blaise a half-truth and feigning embarrassment. 

Blaise’s mouth twisted to the side and for a moment Draco thought Blaise would call him on his falsehood, but his smirk turned into a smile. “Funny, I was thinking along the same lines when I saw her back at the Library.” He looked slyly over at Draco. “Maybe all three of us could work together?” he suggested smoothly. 

Draco couldn’t think of a worse idea. “There’s an idea,” he said brightly, and spent the rest of their journey down to the dungeons trying to persuade Blaise that it was just the opposite. 

++++

“Coward.” 

Draco hardly paid any mind to the snatches of conversation flowing around him as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. The hallways were full to bursting as students made their way to classes or free periods. Hogwarts was brimming with students, more than he thought an extra year full of seventh years would warrant. With those who had been unable to finish their last year of classes due to the war returning, Draco was aware that classes would be tight. He didn’t take into account that every year had been delayed. A whole year had passed after the war was over, which meant that the first years had at least three years worth of students to be sorted. All the subsequent years were doubled as well. Many of the older, abandoned classrooms were cleaned out and put to use, the number of Professors at Hogwarts multiplied. 

All that to say Hogwarts was louder than Draco could ever remember it being. Louder, even, than when the school had hosted the Tri-Wizard tournament. He used to spend his time between classes listening in on conversations in case he could learn something important, mostly for blackmail purposes. That sort of thing was impossible these days. 

“Coward.” This time the word grabbed at his attention, the heat of the mouth that whispered it coming close to his ear. Draco looked around him, but no one seemed especially interested in him. Granger’s paranoia must be catching, Draco thought as he swept a hand over his hair. 

“Coward!” A shoulder collided into him, and he must have made a noise because Blaise turned to look at him, taking in his furrowed brow and scanning eyes. 

“All right there, Draco?” he asked kindly, with the barest hint of concern. 

“Yes,” Draco said absently, though he didn’t sound so sure. Blaise turned back to his discussion, his eyes lingering on Draco for a moment longer. 

When it happened again, Blaise spun around, his wand aimed at a teeming mass of bodies. His dark eyes flickered over the ever-moving crowd, frowning as he searched for the offender. Draco had been completely unaware that Blaise was paying any attention, but he should have known. 

“Damn it, I lost him,” Blaise muttered, his wand arm lowering a fraction as he turned this way and that. 

Draco was scowling by this point, his own wand ready in his hand. “It’s the third time it’s happened since we left class.” 

“Who did you piss off?” Blaise asked cynically. 

Draco threw Blaise a withering look, not appreciating the boy’s humour. “Let’s just get to class. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. I’m sure it won’t be the last.” 

Blaise, Draco, and the rest of their small group proceeded to class. The conversation resumed but it was stilted, everyone on the look out for more antics. None came. Draco thought that a wise move; with all their eyes searching the faces around them, a sneak attack would be impossible. 

They reached DADA, a double class along side the insufferable Ravenclaws, with enough time to prepare their parchments for notes before their Professor, one of the many newly employed at Hogwarts, swept into the room. She was a short, compact woman with long dark hair pulled back into a braid, and eyes that missed nothing. Or so Draco would have thought if he hadn’t received several anonymous drawings of himself in various embarrassing situations. He snuck a look around the room, but everyone seemed otherwise engaged in texts before them. After a short lecture, the desks were cleared and they were partnered up to practice some defensive tactics. Draco wasn’t much of a fan of this class; the dark magic discussed instantly throwing him back to times that were hard to think about without falling into a depressive mood. 

His thoughts drifting, Draco lifted his wand, casting a hex that would turn Blaise inside out—which Blaise easily deflected despite Draco’s covert firing—when he was suddenly struck in the back with a spell that sent pain skittering up and down his nerves. If he hadn’t been distracted by snatches of his dark past replaying over and over in his head, he might have heard the buzz of magic heading straight for him, been able to shield himself from the curse. Instead it struck true. Falling to his knees, shivers racked Draco’s body, his teeth gritted against the pain. It was no _Cruciatus_ , but it was agony no less. His nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply, Draco was largely unaware of what was going on around him, focusing all his concentration on staying put. He had suffered worse pain than this and would not give in to the desire to writhe on the floor. He would not give the caster of the curse the satisfaction he knew they craved. 

When he came back to himself, the class was gathered around him. He felt hands on his shoulders. He shrugged them off and stood, his feet steady beneath him in spite of the curse, although fading, it was still running its course. He forced his body into stillness, a memory blossoming to life in his mind’s eye of a dark figure standing over him, a slender wand aimed at his chest as his body twisted grotesquely on a dusty marble floor. He shook his head, clearing the memory away. 

“Mr. Malfoy are you alright?” the Professor asked, frowning up at him. 

Draco waved a hand, hoping no one noticed the way it quaked. “I’m fine, it was nothing, just a little _prank_ I’m sure.” His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke and Blaise caught his eye, a glint in it that told Draco he knew something. 

“Are you sure you don’t need to go see Madam Pomfrey?” the professor said, lingering. 

“Truly, I’m alright,” Draco reassured her, his eyes meeting hers. She looked at him for a bit longer, but seemed to find what she was looking for because she turned away, dispersing the gathered students with a surprisingly loud clap of her small hands. 

Draco immediately sought out Blaise as they headed toward the far end of the classroom. 

“It was Michael Corner,” Blaise whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of students hanging around the Ravenclaw boy. “I saw him lowering his wand just as you collapsed—”

“I did not _collapse_!” Draco protested, appalled at Blaise’s choice of words, his indignation momentarily lifting him from his dark mood. 

Blaise laughed, an eyebrow raised, but he quickly sobered as he talked. “We can’t let him get away with this Draco. He’s setting a poor example for the rest of Hogwarts. If we don’t deal with him now, things will only get worse.” 

Draco held up a hand, and they turned to face each other. “I’m going to duel him,” Draco said, his jaw set as his eyes settled on Corner. The boy glanced at him, his eyes flickering away before he realized Draco was staring at him. He met Draco’s eyes, smirking, his head tilted to the side in a clear challenge. Draco glared at him. 

“Like a Wizard’s duel?” Blaise asked, incredulous. “How disgustingly lofty of you.” 

“That’s the only way to get back at him. If I stoop to his level, everyone will get the satisfaction of being right about me,” Draco countered, looking back at Blaise when Corner broke eye contact with him. 

“They’ll only get that satisfaction if they find out it was you who did it, Draco,” Blaise said, his head shaking as if he couldn’t believe what Draco was saying to him. He gripped Draco by the shoulders, forcing Malfoy to look at him. “Think about it Draco,” he continued, hands dropping once he had the boy’s attention. “Duelling him is all fine and dandy, but you’ll never get the revenge you want, not within the parameters of a Wizard’s Duel. Now, if you employ a bit of Slytherin maneuvering instead, you’ll get to see that sorry Corner boy squirm like he deserves.” 

Draco had to admit it sounded tempting. Flickers of memory flashed before him, his stomach twisting at how vivid the recollection was, even after all this time. That Corner had dared curse Draco stung cruelly, the memories of the past no longer suppressed as they had been. He remembered how afraid he had felt for his life that night. He remembered seeing his parents just standing there, watching as he was tortured into unconsciousness. That Corner would dare… 

He could think of a few ways right off in which he could get back at Corner without the boy suspecting Draco of having any involvement. Sick ways that would guarantee Corner would leave him alone once he found out Draco was behind it. It was all very tempting, and as Blaise spoke, Draco became more and more convinced that maybe Corner needed a dose of his own collusive medicine. 

+++ 

Draco arrived on time for Herbology class with Gryffindor later that day. He had plenty of seating to choose from but decided he’d sit at the end of a row of tables in a corner near the front of the green house. He faced the door so that he could see everyone who entered without hindrance. For the most part he was recovered from being cursed, but occasionally he felt a quake run through him, his nerves remembering their tortures, past and present. 

Sylvia spotted him quickly when she entered and rushed to his side. She questioned him thoroughly, dragging out every detail she could as she sighed and gasped at appropriate times throughout the tale. Draco was so caught up in recounting the details that he almost missed Granger’s entrance. He tripped over his words upon seeing her, and Blaise smiled at him knowingly where he sat across from Draco. 

He ignored Blaise, and tried his best to ignore Granger too, as she settled down with her usual gang of friends. He finished his story and Sylvia had a few choice words to describe the likes of Corner. Draco found her rant amusing, laughing as Sylvia came up with a particularly colourful and unique description for the boy. Blaise applauded, pretending to wipe a stray tear from his eye. “Beautiful,” he said, his voice rumbling with faked emotion. “Just beautiful.” 

Sylvia pretended to blush, her hand pressing gingerly against her cheek where a blush would be if she felt any such embarrassment. “So how will you get back at him, Draco?” she asked once they’d settled down. “Knowing you, you’re bound to have something absolutely wicked up your sleeve.” 

Draco shrugged noncommittally, not really wanting to get into the specifics of his plans. He was still torn as to how he wanted to approach the Ravenclaw. He wanted to do the right thing and confront Corner fair and square, despite Corner having stooped so low to get at Draco. He knew taking the high road would prove he was a better man than Corner. Actions spoke more loudly than any words could. But on that same note, _actions spoke louder than words_. What better way to make Corner sorry that he had crossed Draco than to hit him even lower than Corner believed possible? And he was a Slytherin, so it could all be done without anyone the wiser. With the help of Blaise, Draco knew he could have Michael Corner begging for forgiveness within a week. 

His devious thoughts must have shown on his face, for his friends—were they friends again?—began to laugh conspiratorially as they looked upon Draco. With his memories weighing heavy on his mind, Draco began to plot.

+++


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Once she’d reached the common room of Gryffindor Tower, Hermione did her best to shake off Lavender, who, unfortunately, had decided that their long walk back from the library was the perfect time to tell Hermione all about the boy from Ravenclaw that she’d just broken up with. After ten minutes of Lavender lamenting the ‘great love’ that she’d just lost, she switched tack and started to ramble on about how she shouldn’t have let Ron Weasley go and how Hermione was lucky to have him. The longer Lavender talked, the more irritated Hermione felt, though she valiantly tried to be sympathetic. However, once they’d both clambered through the portrait hole, Hermione had had enough.

“Look Lavender, clearly Byron was a moron and didn’t deserve you,” she said firmly, giving a tearful Lavender a kind, yet somewhat exasperated, look. “But you’ll be better off for it. You don’t need some idiot boy distracting you this year with our NEWT exams coming up.” 

This was clearly not the advice Lavender had been looking for however, and she shook her hair back from her face as her eyes narrowed. “I’ll never be able to study with a broken heart!” she lamented loudly, glaring at Hermione before casting a dramatic look about the common room, apparently to see if anyone else was listening. “Why Ron chose you over me I’ll never understand, Hermione Granger. Byron was my one true love. We were supposed to be together forever! I’d already started planning the flat we were going to live in after graduation, and the jobs we were going to go in for at the Ministry. Now none of that is going to happen!” She paused to sniff loudly before going on, her voice changing from stubbornly romantic to dramatic anger in the space of a breath. “Though, you’re right about one thing, even if you don’t seem to get matters of the heart,” she declared with flashing eyes. “Byron didn’t deserve me. And he’s going to regret losing me until his dying day!” With that, Lavender flounced across the common room and threw herself into a chair by the fire, where she was immediately set upon by Parvati. In seconds it was clear that Lavender had begun to share her tale of woe a second time, this time to a much more captivated audience.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione started to make her way across the common room toward the spiral staircase that lead up to the girl’s dormitories. Just as she reached the bottom step, a heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder. With a gasp that she quickly tried to stifle, Hermione spun around, her heart pounding in her chest. Ron stood behind her, his hand in the air, a startled look on his own face.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ron muttered, giving her a funny look. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Mentally ordering herself to get it together, Hermione closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Ron, it’s… well, it’s been a long night and I want to get up to bed.” It was a thin attempt at an excuse, but it wasn’t as if she could tell Ron that having him grab her shoulder brought on a vivid flashback of the way Malfoy had done the same, twice, in the past hour, and the feelings that memory brought on. Hermione still hadn’t processed the way she felt about anything that had happened that evening herself. Once she’d come back to herself she’d been totally shocked to find Draco Malfoy holding her, and perhaps more so, at the gentleness with which he’d done so, even when he’d been holding her down so that she wouldn't hurt herself—or him, she supposed.

In a rare display of intuitiveness, Ron reached out and caught at her wrist, his grip warm and reassuring. He took a step closer, his lanky form blocking her from the rest of the room as he spoke quietly. “You’ve been gone for hours, Hermione,” he said in a low voice, his blue eyes watching her unblinkingly. “I haven’t seen you since Potions. Ginny said she walked you to the library, but when she went back later she didn’t see you.” Ron paused, his mouth twisting faintly as he seemed to ponder whether or not to say something, and Hermione tried not to blush guiltily under his unflinching look. “You missed supper too,” Ron said at last. “You’re not starting up that SPEW nonsense again are you?”

“Oh honestly, Ron!” she snapped, irritation bubbling up past the warm feeling she got whenever Ron actually showed some emotion. “I was studying and lost track of time, that’s all.” As if on cue, her stomach gave a loud gurgle and they both looked down at her robes. This time Hermione did blush with some embarrassment, though it was still tinged with guilt at her lie of omission. “I wasn’t sitting at my usual table is all,” she added, fiddling with the strap of her bag so she wouldn’t have to look Ron directly in the face. “That’s why Ginny must have missed me when she came back later.”

Ron studied her for a long moment, and she started to feel uncomfortable. Ron might be thick, but that didn’t mean he was entirely unobservant. After a few seconds however, his expression cleared. “Well, tell someone next time,” he grunted, not quite meeting her gaze either. “After you collapsed and all, well, I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” His ears were bright red now and Hermione felt herself blush for another reason. Ron rarely came right out and said things like this, and she felt sicker for not telling him about her foolishness than from her empty stomach just then. Still, she’d promised herself not to wander off alone for the next few days, and to go see Madam Pomfrey before classes the next day to get a second dose of the potion she’d received that morning, just in case. 

“Thanks for your concern, Ron,” she said softly, reaching up to lay a hand on his cheek. She smiled just as gently, and slowly Ron’s thin lips tipped up too. When he seemed about to duck his head down to kiss her however, she pulled her hand away and stepped back, feeling awash with uncertainty. “I, um, I have to get to bed, Ron,” she muttered quickly, not looking at him again. “I’m really tired. I’ll see you in the morning, ok?” Barely waiting for Ron’s slightly off-put “Goodnight”, she spun on her heel and hurried up the stairs.

+++

“Nice one,” said a slightly overweight boy with the navy-blue of Ravenclaw lining his robes. He was talking in a low voice and nudging his elbow into the side of a tall, dark haired boy in an apparent show of camaraderie. When the taller boy turned his head to acknowledge the pudgy elbow with a smirk and a look of cold amusement on his face, Hermione was able to see that it was Michael Corner. She also recognized the other boy from the library the previous evening. He wasn’t the only one to sidle up to Michael in the halls between classes either. She noticed several other Ravenclaws, and a handful of students from other houses, make a point to clap him on the shoulder or call similar greetings as they passed. 

“What’s going on with the Ravenclaws this afternoon?” Ginny muttered as they walked toward Herbology with Harry, Ron, Neville and a cluster of other Gryffindors. “They’re acting like Michael won the last Quidditch match.”

Harry snorted loudly, drawing both Hermione and Ginny’s attention as they turned a corner and followed the crowd of students outside on their way to the greenhouses. “Yeah,” Harry said cooly, eyeing Michael over his shoulder as they stepped out into the fresh air. “If he showed up to more practices I’d find that a more likely possibility.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean, Harry? You can’t reasonably expect to know when all the Ravenclaw players are on the pitch. It’s not like you practice at the same time.”

“Ravenclaw nearly always practices before we do,” Ron interjected, looking a little put out that Hermione hadn’t directed her question to him, though he’d been cool to her since she’d blown off his goodnight kiss the previous evening. “So we can know that. Especially since Heartwick can be heard shouting threats about sacking slackers who don’t care enough about winning the cup to participate, from halfway across the grounds.” 

Ginny giggled. “Well, I can’t blame her really,” she said, splitting a look between her brother and Hermione. “It’s the final year for all of us. There’s not a super high chance that any of us will continue to play in any professional manner once we’re done school. I know I’d sure like to finish the year with one last house cup under my belt.”

They’d reached the greenhouses now and had to wait for a small bottleneck of Slytherin students to make their way inside. As they shuffled slowly forward, Hermione turned to Ginny, something niggling at the back of her mind. “When was your last practice?”

“Last night after supper,” Ginny said, jostling for position in the line with a Slytherin girl. She matched her glare for glare and, to Hermione’s surprise, the Slytherin girl backed off first. Ginny turned a triumphant grin on Hermione as she continued. “It ran late. The new captain is really pushing us hard. I came by the library after it was over, but I guess you had already gone back to the Tower, because I didn’t see you there.”

Recalling Ron’s saying something like this the previous evening, Hermione quickly bypassed this subtle inquiry by asking about the Ravenclaw practice. “So were the Ravenclaws there before you?”

Ginny nodded, ignoring Ron’s grumbling a few steps behind her. “Yes,” she paused to flip her long red hair over her shoulder, flicking Ron in the face—on purpose, Hermione was almost sure—before continuing. “And if Alyssa Heartwick’s shouts were anything to go by, Michael didn’t show up at all yesterday. If he’s not careful she’s going to kick him off the team. I wonder where he was? Maybe he had detention?” As Ginny mused, Hermione thought back to the meeting she’d seen Michael heading in the corner of the library. What was it he’d been so keen on that Quidditch practice had completely slipped his mind?

A burst of chatter, and the clunking of wooden stools and gardening tools, hit their ears as they finally made their way into the greenhouse. Half the tables were already full of Slytherin students, who, due to their previous class finishing on a side of the castle much closer to the greenhouses than the Gryffindors, had arrived several minutes earlier and claimed most of the prime seats. Keeping her head high as she followed Harry and Ron toward a table in the back, Hermione strode quickly across the plank floor. As she followed the group up the centre aisle, looking for an empty table with enough room for them all, familiar voices pricked her ears and Hermione found herself looking around.

Malfoy was seated at the table furthest from the door in the front line of work stations, and sitting next to him was the tall, dark boy she’d run into on her way out of the library. Both boys had a way of sitting that was both perfectly eloquent and casually lazy, a combination that never would have worked on Harry or Ron—who, Hermione suspected, would look only less interested in paying attention than they usually did if they attempted to do the same. Perched on top of the table between the two boys was the girl who’d been hanging over Malfoy last lesson. Sylvia sat atop the rough wood table with her legs crossed elegantly, in such a way that her robes fell away from them, showing off her long, slim calfs right up to her knees. Malfoy was in the middle of an apparently supremely interesting tale, and Sylvia was oohing and ahhing after every other sentence. Trying not to look like she was interested in their conversation, Hermione walked past the table with her eyes firmly on Ron’s back. Yet she thought she heard Malfoy break off in the middle of his sentence as she did so. The other Slytherin boy chuckled under his breath.

“Ohh what a sneaky, underhanded, trick!” Sylvia’s high, clear voice could still be heard saying, even as Hermione took a seat two rows back. She went on to call someone a rather colourful list of names, several of which Hermione was sure would land her in detention if Professor Sprout heard her. The boy with the dark curls, sitting in the chair to the right of Sylvia’s delicately kicking right foot—a move designed to draw the attention of any male in that vicinity—looked impressed at her creativity and began to applaud her in a mocking sort of way, to which Sylvia pretended to fan her face as if blushing. The whole exchange was full of the teasing arrogance with which most of Slytherin House seemed to treat their fellows.

Despite her silent vow to ignore Malfoy and his friends, as he, apparently, was doing to her—if his straight back and rigid posture were anything to go by—Hermione found herself casting glances over at them as she set her Herbology textbook on the table next to Neville’s. Malfoy had barely looked at her when she’d come in. She had barely seem him all day, even at meals—which she’d made a point to be early at—and now that they finally had a class together he wouldn’t even look at her.

She wondered if he was still angry with her about yesterday. The thought of Malfoy thinking she was a foolish, ignorant _girl_ —in the worst sense of the word—shouldn’t have bothered Hermione. He’d thought and said worse to her many times over the years. But it bothered her now. Her arms still twinged faintly as she arranged her gloves and tools on the work table, reminding her of how close they’d been the previous night. And that memory sparked a reminder of Malfoy shouting at her not to be reckless, and his not so subtle warning that there were worse people than him still running around the halls of Hogwarts. He’d sounded like he actually cared what happened to her last night, so why couldn’t he even be bothered to look at her today?

+++

Draco only gave half of his attention to the note Blaise had slid across to him as the Herbology lecture wore on. They had devised a sort of coded short hand over the years to keep the contents of their notes secret if anyone, more specifically a professor, confiscated them. Draco hadn’t thought much about the code since he and Blaise had gone their separate ways after the war, but he recognized the cypher instantly as the one the two had made up together. Blaise was going on about Corner, but Draco was distracted, yet again, by Granger. It was a marvel he didn’t blow his own head from his shoulders, or fall victim to some unfortunate accident like Granger had. She kept looking at him in what Draco assumed she thought was surreptitious, when really she was as covert as a rhino in a tea shop. 

Draco scribbled a quick reply to Blaise, and passed the note back to him. While the Slytherin was busy, Draco used his wand to cut out a tiny bit of parchment. He inked his quill and scribbled a quick note to Granger:

 

_G,_

_If you keep staring at me like that, someone will get the wrong idea._

_M._

 

When he finished, he tapped the note and watched as it folded itself into a neat, four-legged creature. It scuttled off the table and down his leg, making short work of the distance between Granger and he. When it reached her, it took a similar path up her leg, tangling itself briefly in her skirts, Draco noted with a smirk, before finding its way onto the table and settling itself before her. She’d swiped at the creature as it traversed her leg, but paid little mind to it otherwise, until it blocked the path of her quill where she took notes. She paused, looking upon it with a healthy suspicion. Her eyes cast about her until they met Draco’s. He quirked an eyebrow briefly, indicating that she should read it.

The paper animal lifted up on its hind legs and waved two tiny paper limbs in the air, impatient. Granger opened it with a tap of her wand and read it quickly, her mouth falling open for just a moment, her eyes cutting over to look at him. Draco returned the look with an amused tilt of his mouth. She quickly scribed a reply and sent the creature loping back towards him, this time in the shape of a bulky cat. It settled itself on the floor at Draco’s feet, peering up at him with eyes it didn’t have, before launching itself into his lap. Draco opened it, reading Granger’s reply:

 

_M,_

_I am most certainly not staring at you. Though I’m surprised you noticed, as you seem intent on ignoring my existence._

_G._

 

Draco rolled his eyes, crushing the note quietly in his hand, having run out of room to reply. Instead he sectioned off another piece of parchment. But before he could put quill to parchment, Blaise slid him another coded note. Draco scanned it and smiled crookedly, elbowing the boy. _Boils are a good idea,_ it read. _Lots of them. Everywhere._ The last word was underlined twice. Draco penned a reply and sent the note back before returning his attention to his missive to Granger.

 

_G,_

_What part of laying low don’t you understand? Do you have a death wish out for me? What would you have me do, walk you to class?_

_M._

 

Draco spelled the parchment into the shape of snake, which wound itself down his leg and slithered over to Granger. It slipped up her leg, and this time Granger was aware of the note’s progress, her hand reaching out to catch it in her palm before it could make its way past her knee. She didn’t seem amused, as Draco was, at the snake’s antics. Her reply was quick, and Draco was not surprised to see her note strutting towards him in the configuration of a lion, its chosen shape a silent rebuttal of his own choice of form.

 

_M,_

_I’d say don’t be dramatic, but I know that’s practically impossible for you. A simple nod would have sufficed._

_G._

 

When Draco looked over at her, Granger was smiling at him demurely, hiding the direction of her gaze with a strategically placed arm. Draco was tempted to poke out a tongue at her, but settled on a slight eye roll.

“What’s that?”

Draco nearly dropped his quill, recovering smoothly by twirling the writing utensil between his fingers. It was awkward but Blaise paid it no mind, instead focusing on the note Draco was stowing away in his robes. “Nothing, just a bit of distraction. Ponoma can be rather dry, can’t she?” Draco whispered, pretending to yawn.

Blaise chuckled, but Draco wasn’t fooled for a second. He knew Blaise had caught on to the fact that Draco was up to something, Not wanting to chance being found out, Draco opted not to reply to Granger. Beside him, Blaise half-heartedly took notes, but his attention was on Draco, he could tell by the way Blaise rested his temple on the palm of his hand, his head angled so that he could see Draco clearly. Draco never thought he would curse the fact that the other Slytherin was ambidextrous, previously remarking that the ability to use both hands without flaw was an advantageous one. But now he saw the skill as purely inconvenient. 

Still, Draco couldn’t help the smile that stuck with him for the remainder of the class, the brief exchange between he and Granger replaying over and over in his head. So she cared whether or not Draco spoke to her. That had to be a tally in his favour, right? He had to remember that he had suggested they keep their acquaintanceship a secret, Granger having agreed only after persuasion by Draco. She seemed fine with everyone knowing she had ties, even if they were weak ties, with an ex-Death Eater. No harm would come to her or her reputation. Everyone would assume that he had _Imperius-ed_ her or something, that she needed rescuing. The blowback would fall mostly in Draco’s lap. Not that he wasn’t already experiencing the ramifications of their associations, if the previous days were anything to go by. Now that he thought about it, did hiding their academic involvement have much benefit if everyone already saw fit to accuse Draco of some offence where Granger was concerned? In juxtaposition, he could only imagine how much worse it could get if they knew outright what the two of them had been up to. Look at Michael Corner, who had caught wind of what Draco had supposedly done to Granger, using the circumstance to fuel his hatred for the Slytherin. If Hogwarts were aware that Draco and Granger were forming some tentative friendship, he was sure he would be blamed for any harm Granger came to, whether Draco was around or not.

Draco settled on his previous opinion that the world wasn’t yet ready to know the truth.

When he tuned back into the lecture, Professor Sprout had moved on to the dangers of their flora of interest, which were mild, but still called to mind what had happened to Granger. He began to worry once they were partnered up and began the tactile portion of the class, Professor Sprout not one to stray from her routine. Granger had told Draco in no uncertain terms that she was fully capable of handling herself, but she hadn’t seen the way her eyes had rolled in their sockets, or heard the way she had screamed bloody murder when Draco had caught up to her. She seemed fine now, but Draco would have said the same after seeing her in Potions yesterday. He couldn’t stop himself from checking in on her periodically, only lessening the frequency in which he sought her out after Weasley had caught him looking their way. 

Blaise had somehow flown under Professor Sprout’s radar, having decided that he would much rather work with Sylvia and Draco than to partner off with any of their fellow housemates. Or, more likely, Professor Sprout had chosen not to pay him any mind. He swore Blaise could lure even Madam Pince into bed if he set his mind to it. He was all charm and dark, brooding handsomeness, in comparison to Draco’s pale, cold elegance. He didn’t mind, though, Blaise acting as a buffer against Sylvia’s misguided flirtations. He did think, suddenly, of what Blaise would do if he found out about Draco’s blossoming affection towards Granger. If one could call his feelings affection. He honestly wasn’t sure if he _could_ feel that way towards another person, stunted as he was by his father’s ministrations. If there was one lesson his father had hammered home for Draco, it was that love was for fools. His parent’s marriage had been more of a power move to advance both the Malfoys and the Blacks, than anything to do with love. Sure, his parents had grown fond of each other after a fashion, but that was to be expected of two people who shared a bed for so long. 

Blaise would court Granger if he found out, or at least try to. He would definitely use the opportunity to get under Draco’s skin. He’d done the same with Pansy. Granger was smart, there was no doubt about it, but he doubted even she could ignore Blaise for long. Draco knew he was good-looking, but he was unsure he could contend with a determined Blaise Zabini. Feeling his mood beginning to plummet, Draco swept aside those musing for now, instead concentrating on the Venenum Purpura Flos as it’s deep purple petals bloomed open to expose a vibrant yellow stigma. 

“And I barely had to touch it,” Blaise was saying, his tone one of triumphant confidence.

Sylvia tittered at the joke, but she only had eyes for Draco as her finger traced the edges of a dainty petal suggestively.

“If you want to keep that finger, I suggest you put on a pair of gloves,” Draco warned, not exactly rebuffing her, but not encouraging her either.

Blaise leaned toward him, stage whispering, “Don’t you recognize a come on when you see one?”

This time Sylvia did blush, standing so abruptly she caused the table to rock on its foundation. Around them, students protested loudly, their own careful experimentations suddenly at risk. “I, uh, gloves. I need gloves,” she stuttered, and was off, climbing over the bench she’d sat upon with a lack of grace that was uncommon from her. 

Blaise laughed after her, almost cruelly. “What a tart,” he chuckled, elbowing Draco.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tease her like that,” Draco grumbled, rearranging the tools that had been knocked askew by Sylvia’s clumsy retreat.

Blaise rolled his eyes, but he stopped laughing. “You’re growing soft in your old age,” he lamented. “Whatever happened to the old Draco? He would have found Sylvia hilariously uncouth.”

“That Draco died with the hundreds of other Wizards who lost their lives to the war,” Draco said, with more bite than he had intended.

“Touchy, touchy,” Blaise said, his eyebrows rising in response to Draco’s show of emotion. “You need to get laid,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re always grumpy when you’ve been celibate for too long.”

Draco shoved Blaise, who started up laughing again, drawing the attention of everyone around them. Professor Sprout caught their eye and made her way towards them.

“You’ve done it now,” Draco whispered, and put on his most amiable smile as she approached.

“Mister Malfoy, Mister Zabini,” she greeted them, her congenial tone at odds with the hardness of her eyes.

“Professor Sprout,” the two chanted in unison.

“I hope you two are taking this lesson seriously,” she cautioned. “The _Venenum Purpura Flos_ can be just as tricky as the _Aranea Fungus_ we covered earlier this week. And the flower will definitely be covered in your NEWTs this year.”

“Of course,” Draco effused. “I find the _Venenum Purpura_ to be fascinating. I’m especially intrigued by the way even a subtle change in ratio of iron and fluoride in its nourishment can change its classification from venomous to dormant during its germination stage. I’d be interested to do some exploration along those veins just to see what results I’d get.”

Taken by Draco’s enthusiasm, Professor Sprout smiled broadly at him. “Dangerous work, that, but I believe you capable of such a task if that’s what your group would like to concentrate on this week.” She turned her smile to Blaise, who nodded eagerly.

“Thank you, Professor,” Draco said graciously, as Sprout turned to leave.

They watched her amble over to another group of students, Blaise waiting until she was out of earshot before he spoke.

“Good job, Draco. Now we have even more work to do,” he said miserably.

“I just prevented us from being skinned alive, Zabini. You should be worshipping the ground I walk on,” Draco shot back, but he wasn’t too happy with the results of his flattery, either.

“I’ll leave that to Sylvia,” Blaise said with a snort, just before the girl rejoined them.

Sylvia waved her gloves in the air as she sat. “Better to be safe than sorry,” she jested, seemingly recovered from her earlier embarrassment.

“That’s what Contraceptive Charms are for,” Blaise said with a wink that set Sylvia to blushing again.

Draco ignored them both as he opened his textbook to the chapter about the _Venenum Purpura Flos_ and the fertilization thereof. “Change of plans, Melville. We’ll be doing a project on _Venenum Purpura’s_ fertilization.”

“I’ve told you before, Draco, call me Sylvia. What chapter is that?” she asked, pulling her own textbook toward her.

The three of them fell into the task of research, bouncing ideas off of each other with the practiced ease of a Slytherin, Severus having imparted upon them the many tactics in which a study group could hasten the process of brainstorming. While the other two were engaged in a discussion about which elements of the flower’s fertilization should be the controlled variable, Draco sectioned of a fresh piece of parchment and hurriedly wrote out a reply to Granger’s earlier note.

 

_G,_

_Dramatic? Me? How could you, Granger. I am the picture of refinement. I’ll be sure to recognize your existence from here on out. If people start to notice, don’t say I didn’t warn you._

_M._

 

He transformed the parchment into the shape of the _Venenum Purpura Flos_ , which was rather clever if you asked him, and sent it floating stealthily toward Granger’s table. It floated on a nonexistent breeze below sightline, dashing between legs and under benches to land with a noticeable plop in Granger’s lap, as Draco had charmed it to. 

“What do you think, Draco?” Sylvia inquired, turning to him.

“Hmm?” Draco blinked at them. “Oh, well,” He ran a pale finger down the yellowed pages of his text, stopping at a paragraph near the bottom. “It says here that the water should be distilled naturally using seaweed, overnight. As we’re only testing the iron and fluoride, all other factors should remain the same.”

Sylvia clucked her tongue, pleased as she turned to look at Blaise with an expression of muted elation.

Blaise waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. It’s Draco’s fault we’re doing this anyway. I suppose he gets the final say.”

Draco mentally shook his head, unsure of how he would make it through this with the two of them as his partners. 

+++

Hermione was reading the description of the _Venenum Purpura Flos_ plant they were studying that day when she felt tiny feet scuttle up her calf. She reached down absently and swatted at the approximate spot she’d felt the sensation, but found nothing there. She didn’t scream or leap out of her chair at the thought that a bug or some other small creature might be crawling on her though, one didn’t attend a school where the inanimate could become the animate with the flick of a wand, not to mention the numerous varieties of magical creatures that lived in the grounds of Hogwarts, without developing a thick skin to such things. She turned a page in her textbook to continue reading the instructions of care, pausing briefly to copy out the important bits—which, considering it was her who was taking notes, was most of the page verbatim. 

Something tiny, about the size of a sickle, scuttled across her parchment and bumped headlong into her quill, stumbling back a few inches and then pausing to look up at her with blank eyes. Hermione stopped writing and frowned down at the little creature. It looked similar to a praying mantis, only created from a piece of parchment. It stood up on its hind legs and waved its forelegs in the air, giving off an impression of impatience. 

Curious, but a little wary, as all her friends were currently grouped around her, except for Ginny who was sitting one table to her left, Hermione squinted down at the little creature, then cast a quick look around the greenhouse to see who had sent it to her. Ginny was arguing with the Slytherin girl sitting across the table from her, the same girl who’d tried to elbow Ginny out of line, and looked completely absorbed in her conversation, so it didn’t seem likely that she’d been the one to send Hermione the note. Glancing at the tables a few rows away also yielded nothing. It was only when she finally allowed herself the chance to look at the table where Malfoy and his friends were sitting that she found him already looking back at her. He raised an eyebrow at her, looking as if he were fighting the urge to roll his eyes that it had taken her this long to realize it was he who’d sent her the note.

Her feeling of wariness doubling, she picked up her wand from where she’d laid it on the worktable next to her textbook, and gave the little paper creature a quick tap. It promptly unfolded on top of her parchment, revealing a neatly scrawled sentence in Malfoy’s hand:

 

_G,_

_If you keep staring at me like that, someone will get the wrong idea._

_M._

 

She felt her mouth pop open in surprise and quickly snapped it closed, shooting a covert glare Malfoy’s way. Just what was he implying? As if she was mooning after him from across the room. He was the one who wouldn’t even look at her. She’d been firmly under the impression that he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble after their talk the previous evening. When Malfoy smirked at her she looked away, pursing her lips in irritation as she penned a reply, then poked the paper with her wand and murmured _“Origamius_ ”, watching as a tiny version of Crookshanks replaced the mantis before pouncing across the table and leaping off the edge to dart across the floor toward Malfoy. 

Returning to her work with renewed concentration, determined not to let Malfoy distract her from the lesson this time, Hermione almost yelped in surprise when, a few minutes later, she felt something slithering up her right leg. As it was, she let out a barely stifled squeak, flinching noticeably and causing both Ron and Neville to look over at her. Eyes wide with shock at the pure audacity Malfoy had shown with his choice of note carrier this time, she covertly reached beneath the table and plucked the paper snake off her leg, stopping it before it could slither to an inappropriate level on her thigh. Cupping the gently twisting creature in her palm, Hermione continued to neatly label her diagram of the large purple flower for another minute, until she was sure Ron’s eyes were back on his own parchment. Then, using the large flower pot as cover, she tipped the paper snake onto the tabletop and tapped it with her wand.

Laying low, was he? She’d have used other words to describe Malfoy’s actions if she’d had the opportunity to talk to him just then, but instead Hermione dipped her quill in her ink bottle and scripted a saccharine reply, spelling the paper into a perfect imitation of the Gryffindor lion before nudging it with her wand and sending it bounding back toward Malfoy once more. If Malfoy wanted to play at dramatics then let him. 

All she’d wanted was for him to acknowledge her; it wasn’t as if they were that close friends that she expected him to sit down to breakfast with her in the great hall. She wasn’t sure they were even friends at all. But that didn’t stop her from privately feeling stung that he hadn’t so much as looked her way until he’d sent her that first note. And accusing her of practically oogling him from across the room too! Well she was above such things. When Malfoy’s quick eyes scanned her reply and then shot her way once more, Hermione was sitting primly at her table, her cheek resting against her palm as she fleshed out the details of her drawing, a faint smile on her lips as she imagined the thoughts going through Malfoy’s mind just then.

No reply came to her response. Malfoy now seemed more interested in passing notes with his table partner, the handsome boy who’d engaged Hermione briefly in the library: Blaise Zabini. She’d caught his first name when Sylvia had used it, the coquettish girl apparently had no use for the polite distance such formalities as last names caused, instead determinedly calling both Malfoy and Zabini by their first names, and pouting cutely when Malfoy just as determinedly tried to enforce use of the opposite. His last name came to her attention a few minutes after, following Sylvia’s abrupt exit from their little group to the supply closet, her face red, during which Malfoy and his friend had a low, heated exchange that ended with Malfoy shoving the other boy’s shoulder in a manner that was just a shade less than teasing, drawing Professor Sprout’s attention.

As both boys chirped overly polite responses to the professor’s brusk inquiry as to whether or not they were paying adequate attention to the lesson, Hermione didn’t miss the sideways look Malfoy sent her way; so she was almost expecting the crinkly plop on her lap a few minutes later. Trying to hide her impressed reaction to the perfect paper replica of the plant on the table not a foot away from her, she opened Malfoy’s last note. She could almost hear his mock-offended voice in her head as she scanned the few sentences he’d scrawled, eyes widening. So now he was going to talk to her in class? Maybe even in the hallways? Despite her huffy response to Malfoy’s initial note, she couldn’t help the quiver of apprehension that his declaration sent skittering down her spine. Was this a good idea?

+++ 

“Merlin bless the inventor of the weekend!” Ron crowed after Herbology ended that afternoon. “I swear this weekend took twice as long as last week to get here.”

“That’s because last week we were still on vacation,” Harry said with a grin, bumping Ron’s shoulder with his own. 

It was finally Friday and they had two full days during which any regular student would relax and do their best not to think overly much about the amount of homework they already had to do. If you were Hermione Granger you wouldn’t have a lot of homework to do on weekends, as she was very diligent during the school week, but that wouldn’t mean the weekends were completely free to folly and fancy either. 

“Well, personally I’m looking more forward to next weekend,” Ginny put in, as their little group exited the greenhouse and started the trek across the grounds toward the great hall. When several curious faces turned her way at this announcement, Ginny looked surprised. 

“What’s happening next weekend?” Ron asked with a frown. “We don’t have our first Quidditch match until the end of the month.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at her brother. “Not everything in life revolves around broomsticks, Ronald.” When no one else chimed in to clarify her earlier statement though, she went on. “Hogsmeade. It’s the first visit of the year. I saw Professor McGonagall putting up the notice over lunch. There’s a new amendment for seventh years too.” This news had the added effect of shutting up Ron and drawing the attention of several passing students. 

“What’s the change?” Harry asked, coming up beside Ginny and slipping his hand into hers. Hermione noticed that Ron avoided her eyes when he saw this, so clearly he was still annoyed with her.

“Well, it doesn’t affect everyone,” Ginny admitted, “just those who would’ve been out of school if their year hadn’t been interrupted. Professor McGonagall told me that any student who’s already eighteen this year has the right to stay in the village as late as they like. Not overnight,” she added, elbowing Harry who was giving her a teasingly lascivious look. “There’s just no curfew for them. I wish I were already eighteen.” 

“Well thank Merlin that’s not for another full year,” Ron muttered, glaring at his sister and his best friend. Ginny rolled her eyes and leaned up to kiss Harry rather more passionately than she might have ordinarily, to spite Ron. Harry looked like he hoped Ron would belittle his sister a second time, pulling Ginny into his chest and grinning a little dopily down at her.

“Why don’t we all walk down together on Friday next, then?” Hermione offered. “There’s always lots of new things in the village at the start of term. It’s been ages since I’ve been to Hogsmeade.” Being a muggle, she didn’t have as many opportunities to visit wizarding towns as Ginny and Ron did, and like Harry, she always doubly looked forward to Hogsmeade visits. The group made plans all the way across the grassy hill from the greenhouse and into the hall, chattering away about the things they were looking forward to most and bantering good-naturedly about Ginny’s misfortune to have been born so close to the start of the school year, meaning she’d have to return to the castle at eight o’clock, despite being seventeen.

+++


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Draco was grateful to escape the heavy smell of mud and greenery. He could only take so much of it before his nose began to itch from the thick, heavy scent creeping through his sinuses. He knew spells that would clear away the pollen and such from his system, but the two that he knew were rather uncomfortable to experience while in the company of others. The first spell literally forced the offending debris from his nose with a great, wracking sneeze. It was messy and undignified, two things Draco was most decidedly not. The second spell was more akin to a banishing charm leaving the sinuses unpleasantly dry in its wake. No, Draco preferred to ignore the persistent tickle in his nose altogether as he could manage an hour or two of it. Not that he would ever admit to having any such weakness as it was just that: a weakness; and Draco would not have any association with it. Now, as he cleared the greenhouses with the appropriate Slytherins in tow, the frosty autumnal winds swept through their little group as they trekked across the grounds, clearing Draco right up. It was with a bounce in his step that he traversed the windy stretch towards Hogwarts Castle. Granger and her gaggle of friends were ahead of them, not so far ahead that Draco couldn’t see their expressions, but out of hearing distance all the same. 

Draco didn’t mind, his attention captured as it was by friends’ playful banter. Baiting Sylvia seemed to have become some sort of sport for Blaise, but the girl was taking it all in stride, no longer fazed by Zabini’s teasing. That was Slytherin for you, quick to adjust to any given circumstance. He was glad to see it. While it was true that he had no intentions with Melville, he wasn’t too fond of watching her squirm. It was interesting that Blaise found comfort in behaving like his old self after everything that had transpired over the years, but Draco couldn’t say he was too surprised. His family had stayed clear of both sides of the war, and so the fallout had barely touched them. The Zabini’s were a social house, yet kept out of drama with a skillful balance that Draco admired. For all that though, Draco knew Blaise for what he really was: a scheming bastard. He put on a pleasant front, which made him all the more dangerous to be around. 

Upon arriving at the school’s entrance, Draco and his group were met with a crowd of students bunched in front of the large wooden doors, the single open doorway now a bottleneck clogged with bodies slowly inching through it. 

“Come on!” Blaise yelled as they crept forward. He shivered for effect though Draco knew for a fact Blaise wore a heating charm. Draco could feel it radiating off of him even through his own conjured warmth. “Someone open the other bloody door!” A few moments later the other door edged open and everyone stepped backwards in a wave to allow for its swinging path. “Idiots,” Blaise muttered with a superior look on his face. 

Draco had to agree. For all they were Wizards, sometimes his peers thought an awful lot like Muggles. Dumb Muggles. Draco paused, his eyes cutting to look over at Blaise. Was the other boy starting to influence Draco? It had been some time since he had had such arrogant thoughts when it came to the differences between Muggles and Magical folk, but the thought had rolled through his mind with ease. He would have to tread more carefully where the other Slytherin was concerned. Draco was still struggling to become someone he could be proud of and he didn’t need the likes of Zabini to drag him back to Ye Olde Draco. 

In the confusion of entering the school, Draco was jostled several times by the bodies around him. When he looked about, he noticed Granger wedged between Ginny and some other girl from Gryffindor that Draco was pretty sure was named after a shade of purple or something. Ginny was too busy shoving at the boy who had crowded up behind her to pay him much attention, Granger equally distracted, but the purple girl caught his eye. She swallowed nervously at his proximity and he gave her a wink, satisfied to see her eyes widen before she turned away.

Still, Granger was oblivious to his presence. That was until Potter, who stood just in front of her, stumbled backwards and created a sort of domino effect, forcing Granger to trip as well, her small frame colliding into Draco before bouncing off so that she pushed Potter forward as well. On instinct Draco reached forward, his hands providing a stable force against her waist to steady her. As if her body held a current of some sort, Draco released her with a quickness that set her to wobbling as she caught her balance again. To his mortification, he felt a heat that started at his collar and stole up his neck to encompass his face at the thought of how…personal his touch had been. Merlin, her shoulders were right there, why couldn’t he have— 

But her eyes were on him, her face already shaped in apology as their gazes met, no doubt unaware that it was Draco who had been behind her. For a moment she looked startled, but it was quickly replaced with a look Draco couldn’t describe as her eyes turned quickly away from his. Chagrin? Irritation? He couldn’t say. 

“Ah, sorry about that,” she said, though she didn’t quite meet his eyes. But the moment passed, swept apart as they were by the pull of the crowd. By the time Draco spotted her again she was too far away to get her attention without causing a scene. Thankfully his complexion had returned to its usual pale state before anyone could take notice. Naturally the flow of students headed towards the Great Hall, dinner being soon enough. They would be early, but Draco held fond memories of milling about the Slytherin table, talking and laughing as they passed the time. It was a relief to relive some part of his past that wasn’t tinged with bad memories. The normalcy in which he and his friends sat around chatting at the far end of the Great Hall served to relax Draco more than any fine wine. He hadn’t known he valued human interaction so much. Contrary to the way things used to be, more students took it upon themselves to visit their friends in other houses, hopping tables as the fancy struck them. It was because of this inter-house mingling that Draco caught word of a Quidditch scrimmage planned for Saturday evening, after dinner. 

“Go on,” Blaise prompted, when the girl from Hufflepuff, Isla, paused too long in between details, relishing the attention of the Slytherins around her. 

“It’ll be a casual affair, no professors and no refs save for us. It’ll also be after curfew so we’ll have to be sneaky about it.”

“Will it be teams by house, then?” someone asked a little further down the table. 

Isla turned to address the speaker. “Yes, but only because it’s easier.” She stood then, gracing them all with a wide smile. “Be there if you dare,” she said ominously, before making her way to the next table, presumably to share the same news. 

“Should be interesting,” Draco murmured, as he surveyed the faces of those around him, and it was obvious that they all agreed. 

“Especially since it won’t be limited to those who already play for our house,” Blaise drawled, unimpressed. 

“Are you playing then?” Sylvia asked.

“And chance ruining this stunning face?” Blaise scoffed. 

“Not much more that could go wrong with it,” Draco said slyly, which earned him a not so gentle punch to the shoulder.

The prospect of a pick-up Quidditch match excited Draco, and it was all they talked about over dinner. Draco itched to put his new broom to the test. It flew beautifully, needing almost but a thought to encourage it to do his bidding. He could imagine the looks of admiration and awe he would garner as he swaggered on to the pitch, his broom gleaming in the moonlight where it rested against his shoulder. He’d give it a good polish that night, foregoing his usual schedule of studying to make his broomstick shine for the following night. Even as he thought it, the image began to fade, replaced by reality. It would probably be wise to sit this one out. His fellow housemates might be warming up to him but the same could not be said yet for the rest of the school. There was also Corner to worry about. The last thing Draco needed was to be cursed mid-flight. He doubted anyone would rise from the stands to save him if he plummeted to his death. Blaise would probably watch it happen with relish, although he would look sad enough when confronted. 

By the end of dinner he had come to terms with his decision to support his team from the sidelines. No doubt Potter and Weasley would be apart of the spectacle, he thought as he spared a glance over at the Gryffindor table. Sure enough, two heads, one red and one black, were bent together, a bit of rumpled parchment between them, their faces bright with excitement. Draco could feel his lip curling in annoyance, but he didn’t let his mood take him. Instead, he sought out Granger who was rolling her eyes at something the two boys were saying and his irritation turned to amusement. He was sure their antics only served to exasperate her. Still her smile for them was doting, and he looked away, a strange feeling welling up inside of him at the sight of her tender expression. 

They went to bed late that night, the Slytherin common room more festive than Draco could ever remember it being. The jovial environment probably had a lot to do with the lack of danger looming over everyone. It allowed those who were usually reserved to loosen up and actually enjoy themselves. Draco chose to observe it all from where he relaxed in his favourite chair, which sat almost shoved in a corner, shadowed by a large marble statue of Salazar Slytherin. Slytherins didn’t stoop so low as to play Exploding Snap or that silly game with the beans. Instead they focused their attention on games of Wizard’s Chess and more sophisticated card games that often involved a bit of gambling. Draco had played a few rounds himself, winning more galleons than he lost before he tired of it and sought refuge in his beloved chair. It had welcomed him like an old friend, adjusting so that it was the perfect balance of soft and firm. His eyes roamed over the room and he couldn’t say he was shocked to see Sylvia and Blaise cuddled up in a loveseat, their heads bent together as they whispered to each other. Blaise would use her up and spit her out before the weekend was over if Draco knew Blaise as well as he thought he did. 

He turned in before most of the others did, and decided he would give his broom a bit of a polish despite the fact that he wouldn’t be flying in the game tomorrow evening. He trimmed the bristles after he’d finished oiling the wood, and set the broom to breathe on its stand. When he settled in his bed, freshly showered and no longer smelling of broomstick oil, he found sleep came to him quickly. He dreamt of twisting green vines and slim hips gripped tenderly by pale hands, of tall, teetering stacks of books, of screaming. He dreamt of flying through a clear, starry sky, of thick clouds of navy smoke filling a glass house. And, oddly, he dreamt of pumpkin juice. 

++++ 

The next morning dawned with a buzz of excitement that the Professors couldn’t puzzle out. Honestly, they were too tired to give it any energy. While Hogwarts’s students had spent their Friday night in leisure, the professors had toiled over mountains of classwork, hoping to free up a bit of time for leisure themselves that weekend. Going against everything Draco knew about the school, somehow the secret of their late night Quidditch game had stayed under wraps. Even the first years were doggedly tight-lipped on the matter. 

Draco had attended breakfast and eaten heartily, preparing his stomach for a long session of studying and homework. Blaise accompanied him, but not without protest. The library was bustling with students, which was common for the weekend. Madam Pince barely gave Draco a hard time, busy as she was managing the influx of students crowded around her desk. She really ought to have an assistant, if anyone could survive long enough in her company to be of any use to her. She handed him the reservation card with only a stern glare as a warning before she moved on to help a frantic looking second year. Their long legs made quick work of the Library and they soon found themselves in Draco’s secluded study area. It was a cloudy day but Trelawney had purported that the coverage would clear up by sunset, word was. Usually the area was well lit by the sun pouring in from the windows at this hour, but the fire was the only visual aid they had. Luckily the tables before them were dressed with two ornate candelabras holding fresh candles, their wicks yet to be lit. The two settled in with twin sighs, Draco’s in anticipation, and Blaise’s in resignation. 

By the third heaping sigh from Blaise, Draco had had enough. He flicked his wand and a ghostly clock materialized in the air between them. The hour hand was slowly inching towards the word ‘Lunch’. 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Blaise said with exaggerated relief, slamming closed a text with force. “I thought we would be here all day.” 

“I planned on coming back after lunch—” Blaise cut Draco off with a loud groan, but Draco pressed on. “But it being only the first week there wasn’t much homework to do.” He didn’t mention he had been planning out a few diagrams for the charm he and Granger had worked on briefly. He’d finished his schoolwork at least an hour ago and had switched to his charm, a few new ideas having occurred to him as the week progressed. He could feel the pangs of hunger growing in his own stomach and so they packed up and headed for the Great Hall.

Draco wasn’t surprised to see Granger occupying her usual study spot in the library, this time not alone. Potter and Weasley were absent, no doubt planning out a full playbook of schemes for the pickup game that night. Draco decided he wouldn’t bother her as she looked to be deeply engaged in whatever subject had caught her fancy. Just as he was passing her though, she looked up at him, her smile tentative. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, his mouth quirking to the right. It wasn’t quite a smile, but Granger seemed the find it acceptable as her own smile softened into something a little more genuine. Blaise was nattering on about Quidditch, too busy listening to his own voice to notice that Draco wasn’t paying any attention to him. They carried on that way until they reached the Great Hall, where Blaise found a more interested audience.

As the day progressed, Draco’s excitement grew. He had almost declined going to dinner, his stomach in such knots over whether or not to play for Slytherin. Yes, he had already made his decision to excuse himself from the game, but as the time drew closer Draco felt an almost irresistible pull to join. Seeing the anticipation in everyone else’s eyes only spurred Draco on. Maybe he could redeem himself by pulling off a win for Slytherin. If he played fair and was courteous, the others were bound to see he was putting forth an effort. It could be a step in the right direction. But it was just like him to forget the things that displeased him. He was still under fire for what had happened to Granger earlier, and word had spread about Michael Corner, and what he had done to Draco. The results had been as expected; Hogwarts’ resolve to treat Draco as if he were the same foolish kid he had been years before was only solidified by Corner’s actions. So when dinner let out, and everyone made their way towards their dorms to prepare for the evenings amusement, Draco ignored the pristine set of flying robes he’d purchased over the summer in favour of a heavy cloak. He recognized the Quidditch match for what it was; an olive branch between the houses to commune in a way that wasn’t forced upon them by their superiors. 

They could take this night and forge new friendships as they mingled with one another. This was a part of the healing that would need to take place at Hogwarts as a whole and Draco couldn’t imagine ruing such an effort simply because he was too excited to play. He would let his peers have their night. 

And what a night it was. 

The sun was carefully nestling itself between the distant peaks of the mountains in the west when everyone who had wanted to participate in the game was present. It took them until the sun was fully submerged and glittering stars speckled the sky, to figure out how many teams each house would have, and how long each match would last. It was finally decided that there would be simultaneous games. The losers would be dropped from the brackets and the winners would face off. In the off-chance that one house dominated the brackets, losing teams of the opposing houses with the highest scores would be called in to play against the winners until there was an ultimate champion. 

Someone had been smart enough to provide refreshments for the on-lookers. Draco, Blaise and Sylvia approached one of the three tables, eyeing the spread interestedly. Blaise ladled out a scoop of some drink in a large punch bowl. Draco followed suit and they both took tentative sips. The crisp taste of apples burst over Draco’s pallet, followed by the savoury sweetness of caramel. Cinnamon tempered the flavour profile and made way for the dark notes of whisky. 

“Spiked,” Draco said with approval. “Though the whiskey tastes cheap.” 

“Probably Muggle,” Blaise said with a twist to his mouth. 

Draco didn’t hold anything against Muggles, not anymore, but if he were being completely honest there were just some things that Wizards did better, and whiskey was one of those things. 

“I propose a toast,” Sylvia said as she raised her plastic cup in the air. 

Blaise brandished his own cup, but it was different than Draco’s or Sylvia’s. He had transfigured the cheap plastic into a gaudy, heavily bejewelled goblet. Draco, inspired, transfigured his own cup into a more tasteful silver affair with intricate vines twisting and twining together carved into the metal. 

“To Slytherin,” Sylvia continued, rolling her eyes at their childish display.

“To Slytherin!” the two boys parroted, and the three cups clanged together cheerfully. 

+++

The crush of students trying to force their way through the front entrance of the castle was stifling. Hermione had never particularly enjoyed crowds; being crammed into a space only as big as your body was, while surrounded by the overwhelming scents of other bodies—sweat and cologne and perfume, not to mention the added oddities of magical plants or potions from classes at Hogwarts, all the while having even the vaguest idea of personal space suppressed… it made her anxious. At least right now the bodies shoving up against hers were familiar and friendly: Ginny and Lavender on either side, and Harry in front—valiantly trying to clear a path for all of them to squeeze through. 

“Oi, watch it,” Ginny suddenly snapped, turning to glare over her shoulder at a Hufflepuff sixth year boy who was practically wallpapered to the back of her robes. “If you want to keep that hand, Cartright, you’ll keep it further away from me!” The Hufflepuff boy lifted both hands to shoulder level, smirking, and Ginny’s glare turned deadly. Hermione thought she heard the other girl mutter a threat involving her infamous Bat Boogey curse, and Cartright’s smug grin slipped a little. _Good for her,_ Hermione thought, smiling a little to herself as the crowd continued to fight for inches like cattle. Ginny never let anyone push her around, especially the boys. Hermione put this down to growing up with six brothers, though she knew that a good part of it was Ginny’s natural personality. She was outspoken and brave, and an inspiration to Hermione. 

On her right side, Lavender seemed to be torn between flirting with a Gryffindor boy who had been shoved unceremoniously up against her by his friend, and trying to carve out a space for herself. Hermione half noticed Lavender look over her shoulder at someone, and blanch, turning quickly back around. _It was probably Ron_ , Hermione thought; Lavender had been single all of a day and already she was trying to find a new guy. She probably didn’t want Ron to comment on her relationship skills, or lack there of. 

Harry, meanwhile, had been trying shove past a pair of Slytherin boys who were having none of it, and purposely shouldered him hard, knocking him back into the wall of people behind him. While Harry shouted in anger and annoyance, the Slytherin boys jeered, and the group of them commenced a childish shoving match, as the crowd was too intense for anyone to go for a wand. This shoving back and forth, however, caused a ripple effect for those in the surrounding crowd, and Hermione found herself shoved into the person behind her when Harry was knocked backwards into her by the combined effort of the other two boys. She stumbled hard into something firm, recoiling off someone’s chest and smacking into Harry as he was shoved backward again. Rebounding off Harry like a pinball, Hermione curled into herself, drawing her arms in against her chest and ducking her head down to try and avoid taking an elbow or other randomly flailing body part to the face. 

It wasn’t that she was exactly worried about falling, or getting crushed by the crowd of students on all sides—there really wasn’t enough room for Hermione to do much more than shove roughly up against whichever unfortunate soul was situated behind her—but that didn’t mean her body didn’t tense up in anticipation of a fall. Locking her limbs into place and squeezing her eyes shut, Hermione had mentally prepared herself for several outcomes: Ron catching at her shoulders and pushing her forward in that casual way he and Harry had with her—not exactly roughness, as they, by now, realized that she was a girl, but not exactly gentle either, as they’d been friends for so many years that by now the politeness with which they touched each other was a genial sort of familiarity; or two, for the people she banged into to shove her forward with the same sort of annoyed roughness that Harry was facing just ahead of her, because she’d stepped on their toes. She wasn’t prepared to feel a set of strong hands catch at her waist, gripping firmly as they steadied her, preventing Hermione from crashing again into whoever was at her back. 

The hands released her almost at once though, letting go with such suddenness that Hermione almost tripped forward in the opposite direction. Certain that Ron had accidentally allowed himself to be touchy-feely in public and horrified himself, Hermione regained her balance and turned to look over her shoulder, half exasperated at Ron and half apologetic. When she found herself facing the black robes and green and silver tie of a Slytherin boy, instead of the gangly form of her boyfriend however, the words died on her lips. 

Draco Malfoy was looking down at her with an expression that looked caught between horrified and embarrassed. Even his normally pale face was starting to look faintly flushed. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the crowd that was making him look that way or if it was simply the fact that she’d—unintentionally or not—just thrown herself into his arms. He was probably offended at her lack of grace under pressure or something. Next to him was Blaise Zabini, nattering to a crowd of other Slytherins about the uncouthness of the crowd. Malfoy was still staring at her, not saying a word, and Hermione felt herself flush too, though she wasn’t sure what she felt exactly: irritation at Malfoy for putting his hands on her in such a familiar fashion, annoyance that he was looking at her like he couldn’t believe what had just happened, or… maybe he was feeling the tiniest bit embarrassed about the whole thing like she was. After all, despite the public setting, his touch had been rather intimate. 

“Ah…” she fumbled for words, wanting to make her escape but having no where to go with students from every house vying for space on every side. “Sorry about that.” Malfoy still said nothing, and Hermione turned quickly back to face front. She was uncomfortably aware of Malfoy’s presence at her back and quickly threaded her arm through Ginny’s, leaning in against her friend and determinedly not looking over her shoulder again until the bottleneck burst, spilling students into the corridor, and beyond it, into the great hall. 

+++ 

Lavender had apparently decided that the Gryffindor boy from the pre-dinner crush was a worthy dining companion. She was squeezed up next to him, batting her eyelashes and giggling at every other thing he said, between casting glances over at the Ravenclaw table where Byron was sitting with his back to her. Ginny sat next to Hermione on the long bench set alongside the Gryffindor house table, with Harry and Ron on the opposite side. They’d been eating for ten minutes when a very pretty, slender girl, with long chestnut hair and a very perky attitude skipped up. The black and yellow stripped headband she wore proclaimed her a Hufflepuff, but if Hermione had met her back at a muggle school, she would have said she was a cheerleader. When she started into a hushed speech about a secret Quidditch match planned for the next night, Hermione turned back to her dinner—sweet and sour ribs, mashed potatoes, garlic toast, and caesar salad—and started tuning her out, that is, until she caught the words, “—after hours, so be careful leaving your dorms. Anyone who brings a professor down on us will definitely be banned from all future events.” 

“Cool!” Ron said excitedly, turning to nudge Harry beside him with a look of anticipation on his face. “Without Hooch there to enforce the rules of play, we can really have some fun. There’s a few strategies I’ve seen the Cannons use that I’ve been wanting to try, though Hooch reckons they’re too dangerous.” He rolled his eyes. Harry joined in with just as much apparent interest in a midnight Quidditch tournament, even Ginny’s eyes had lit up. As the Hufflepuff girl, Isla, she had introduced herself as, explained that the teams would be divided by house, but not restricted to regular team players, the boys groaned, but Ginny put in cuttingly that good sportsmanship was a quality she expected in her boyfriend, which caused Harry to grin, chastised, and Ron to roll his eyes again, muttering about the lack of such a quality in most opposing Quidditch players, until his sister threw a roll at him and it bounced off his forehead. 

“Spectators are encouraged as well,” Isla added, looking at Hermione, who wasn’t joining in with the eager talk of flying formations with the other three, watching as Harry pulled a piece of parchment from his bag to start scribbling down ideas with Ron. “There’ll be snacks and music, and a good time. Merlin knows we could all use a little letting loose, right?” Isla winked at the boys and Ron grinned. 

After Isla had flounced off to pass on the news to the next set of students, Hermione looked over at the boys pouring over Harry’s parchment, already full of moving Xs and Os and squiggly lines—Ginny leaning across the table to put in her two cents—and felt a smile tug at her lips. After the week she’d had, maybe a little letting loose was exactly what she needed. 

+++ 

Saturday dawned bright and clear, a faint chill hanging in the air, warning of the season’s continued march from Autumn toward Winter, though the sun was still bright and warm when the wind wasn’t blowing. After eating a quick breakfast, Hermione headed toward the library, dragging a sleepy-eyed Ginny in her wake. She hadn’t bothered trying to convince Harry and Ron to join them in the library, she knew Ron would flat out refuse, and Harry, though slightly more conscious of his schoolwork this year, would easily be persuaded to go outside straight after they’d eaten to run plays for the match that night. Though there were a fair few more people carrying broomsticks in the hallways that morning than usual, none of the professors commented on it; the first official Quidditch match of the year was in two weeks and there was always a frenzied increase in practice schedules before it, every team wanting to come out of the gate strong. 

So it was only Ginny who accompanied Hermione to the library, though they soon found a group of other Gryffindors to join and the morning passed in a whirl of textbook pages and scribbling quills. It was nearly lunch time before Hermione thought of taking a break, and she’d just put down her quill and stretched her arms out in front of her, lacing her fingers together and stretching her muscles to shake out the tension of hours bent over parchment, when a shadow fell across her notes, drawing her attention away from rereading the last paragraph she’d written and over to the two boys who were strolling past her study group, on their way out of the library. 

It was Malfoy and Blaise, the other boy apparently Draco’s new best friend this year. Or old best friend, Hermione didn’t really know. Just because she’d only seen Malfoy ordering Crabbe and Goyle around before didn’t mean he didn’t have other acquaintances. As the two boys neared her, Draco caught her eye. For a split second Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond, she hadn’t seen Malfoy closer than across a room since dinner the previous evening, and the feeling of his hands on her waist came rushing back, along with the odd look he’d had on his face, and she felt her face flush. Trying not to think about Malfoy’s arms around her, she forced a small smile, offering an olive branch if he wanted to take it. Malfoy didn’t slow down as he and Blaise strode past her, but he caught her look and nodded briefly, his own lips tipping up in half a smile before they were past her and out the door. Well, at least he wasn’t completely disgusted with her, she decided, slamming her Transfiguration book shut. 

“I’m done,” Hermione announced, turning to Ginny who’d been practicing wand movements from an armchair in the corner, keeping half an eye out of Madam Pince who would have her head if she was caught with her wand out in the library. “Want to get a bite to eat?” 

Lunch was a casual affair in the castle on the weekends, with the house elves keeping up a constant fare from around noon to two o’clock, and most students wandered in and out of the hall at random. The teachers were usually finished eating by twelve-thirty and left the students to themselves, under the stern warning that anyone caught causing a food fight would have to clean the hall by themselves, without magic. After they ate, Ginny abandoned Hermione for the Quidditch pitch, telling her that she had to get in some practice before the match, no way was she going to let Harry, not to mention Ron, show her up when they were flying that night. So Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon in the Tower, enjoying the solitude of her empty dorm room and reading a muggle novel she’d brought along, while Crookshanks lay curled up next to her on her bed, purring in the afternoon sunshine. 

+++ 

At nine-thirty, Hermione, Ginny, Lavender, and a gaggle of other older students between fourth and seventh year, made their way out of the castle. There had been a flurry of silencing charms, disillusionment charms, and other concealments cast as the pack of Gryffindors exited the Tower and trooped through the quiet castle out into the grounds, many of them carrying broomsticks. Harry led the the Gryffindors through the castle, his eyes on the Marauder’s Map, warning them if he spotted a teacher anywhere near them as they made their exit. The sun had nearly set as they crossed the grounds, and Hermione cast a nervous glance at Hagrid’s cabin, hoping that the excited whispers and occasional whoops of laughter coming from the crowd wouldn’t wake him. She didn’t want to have to lie about why they were outside. 

They reached the Quidditch pitch in record time, a mix of all four houses milling about at the entrance when Hermione and Ginny arrived. Isla was manning a table just inside, a long roll of parchment with a sign-up list for each house laid out next to a neat chart that showed the order each team of players would face-off, down to the ultimate pair vying for pride of place. Ginny immediately signed her name, glancing around excitedly at the crowd. Harry and Ron, and several other students not on the house team, also signed their names, and Isla waved the players over to the side of the pitch to wait until groups were organized. 

“I know this isn’t exactly your thing,” Ginny said, nudging Hermione’s side with her elbow, “but thanks for coming along.” 

Hermione gave her friend a slightly sheepish smile back. “Which part? Watching Quidditch? Sneaking out after curfew? Breaking a hundred school rules the first week of my final year at Hogwarts? Pshhh…” she scoffed, “this is nothing compared to even my first year with Harry and Ron.” Ginny laughed, but Hermione had to admit she still felt a little nervous. It was one thing to sneak around with her two best friends under cover of Harry’s invisibility cloak, and quite another to attend the equivalent of wizard rave under the nose of a staff of professors, one of which lived just across the grounds from the pitch. 

“Well, I’m glad you came anyway,” Ginny grinned. “If I see you being too reckless between my multitude of goal scoring, I’ll be sure to let you know.” 

As Ginny walked over to join Harry and Ron on the pitch, her broomstick in one hand, Hermione glanced around the crowd, looking for a familiar face. It was hard to see. The regular stadium lights weren’t on, the stands and pitch lit by floating candles instead, as well as various lanterns or charmed fires students had brought with them from the school or cast nearby once they’d settled somewhere. Lavender had been near her when they’d been walking over from the school, but when Hermione had turned to look for her, she found the curly-haired girl cuddled up next to her new boy-toy. Though Lavender was a frenemy at best, Hermione felt abandoned in the crowd. All of her close friends were gearing up to play, and she was left on her own. 

Having nothing else to do until the teams were decided, Hermione drifted through the crowd, people-watching and hugging her cloak tighter around herself. She spotted a cluster of students huddled around a punch bowl and didn’t protest when a red plastic solo cup was pressed into her hands. The contents where warm and she lifted the cup to her lips to take a deep sip, thinking of hot Butterbeer—and nearly spit the mystery drink back out again. Judging by the scents wafting up from her cup, someone had concocted some sort of cider, which normally Hermione would have enjoyed on a crisp night like this, but whoever had made this version had given it a little—or a lot, judging by even the little taste she’d had—something extra. Not wanting to seem a complete stick in the mud, she decided against tossing her cup in the nearest bush and instead decided to just carry it with her, and take tiny sips if anyone pressed her about it.

Excitement was building among her peers, she could practically feel the current of energy running through the crowd as Isla magnified her voice and announced that Ravenclaw team one would play Slytherin team one, using half the pitch and the same set of goal hoops, leaving the opposite side for Hufflepuff vs Gryffindor. Hermione had never seen simultaneous Quidditch matches before, and wondered how having only half a pitch to accommodate twice the amount of players would work out. She hurried to find a seat, locating a space a little off to the side where no one else was currently grouped, and wrapped both her hands around her cup, soaking up the heat of her cider as somewhere in the darkness a whistle was blown and twenty-eight players shot into the air.

+++


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine 

With their partially drained goblets in hand, Draco, Blaise and Sylvia took a meandering path along the edge of the Quidditch pitch, their heads craned backwards as they watched the glowing outline of their peers zipping through the sky. The stakes were much higher, partially due to the lack of real adults to supervise them and partially due to the cover of night. Something about the lack of light made the evening that much more exciting and daring. Even so, Draco found himself quickly losing interest in the match playing out before him. If he were honest, the two teams flying before him held little skill. They were too focused on learning to wield an instrument and fly at the same time to make any interesting plays. He dragged his friends off in order to find Potter and Weasley, who he knew were putting up a better fight. 

It didn’t take long to find the match containing the famous Gryffindors. Despite Isla’s best efforts the more talented players had grouped together to form skilled teams. There were a few people Draco didn’t recognize as actually being a part of any team, but where they lacked in recognition, they made up for in skill. Gryffindor already had a sickening lead on its opponent. Before he could get sucked fully into the intrigue of the game however, Draco’s attention was drawn away by the arrival of a sweaty, panting kid about two years his junior. It was on the tip of his tongue to reprimand the kid for his disheveled appearance (Draco wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t recognized the silver and green Slytherin emblem on the boy’s shoulder) but he repressed the urge as the kid came to a halt before the trio. 

“Slytherin needs a player, someone hurt in a crash. Replacement needed at once,” he explained between gasps of air. Draco and Blaise exchanged puzzled looks. “Said to send for you, Malfoy.” 

Blaise quirked an eyebrow at him, a silent question. Draco shook his head and Blaise sighed heavily. “I suppose I’ll do it,” he said, his eyes rolling in exasperation. “For the sake of unity,” he added, at Sylvia’s smirk. 

“Of course,” Draco and Sylvia said jointly, but they elbowed each other nonetheless. For all his reluctance, Draco knew Blaise loved Quidditch. They trailed a step or two behind the Slytherin as he followed their messenger towards the group of students in need. Draco never quite understood why Blaise resisted Quidditch as much as he did. He was an excellent flyer, and pretty good with a bat and bludger. He had good sight and quick reflexes, so if there had ever been need of a reserve Seeker, Blaise could have stepped in. Yet year after year Zabini stayed his distance from the sport. Draco assumed it had something to do with being second pick, as Draco was the obvious first choice. He had the sleek build of a Seeker and had flown the best broomsticks since before he could walk. Sometimes, mostly in his dreams, Draco could remember a time when the three Malfoys had sat together in a sunny dayroom, a chubby, rosy-cheeked Draco secured firmly to a miniature broomstick as it floated safely around two youthful, delighted parents. But it was hard to believe his father could ever look so happy, or his mother so carefree. Often he wondered if his dreams were just that: dreams; and not some distant memory of his childhood. 

Blaise shed his heavy outer robe before transfiguring it into the customary Slytherin Quidditch kit. Sylvia stepped forward and tapped at the black trim, holding the point of her wand against the sleek material until it glowed just the same as the rest of the team. Blaise bent, his hand reaching out to tilt Sylvia’s head back as he bestowed a soft kiss on her lips. Draco looked on in surprise at the display of intimacy. It was unusual to see, Blaise’s style usually more for show of possession than any sort of delicate care for whoever his taste of the week was. That kiss had been something different altogether. Maybe the romance between the two Slytherins was more than just a fling. When they finished, Sylvia’s hand sliding down the broad expanse of Blaise’s chest, the boy turned to his team with a sly smile and a twinkling eye. “Ready to kick some arse?” With a great roar that had the rest of them looking around in worry that the noise might carry, the team rushed off to their playing arena, kicking off into the air in a rush of effulgent green. 

It was a good show. With Blaise on the team, their opponents hadn’t a chance. They swept through the quick game with a swiftness that was frankly embarrassing. In thirty minutes the new Slytherin team had beat their previous opponent and were well on their way to destroying the ragtag team of Hufflepuffs they currently faced. Sylvia was glued to the scene before her, barely noticing when Draco excused himself to refill his drink. Already he felt a pleasant buzz all over his body from the first drink, and while he wasn’t looking to get drunk, he wanted to keep the delicious warmth going. The crowd was beginning to thin as students paired off to more secluded parts of the grounds, but Draco happened upon a rowdy group of students who had come together to craft signs that would encourage their houses or discourage their opponents. Draco snorted when he saw a sign that read ‘You can put your balls through my goalpost!’ Surprisingly he saw a kid clad in Ravenclaw robes scribing the words in glowing blue wandlight. He was tempted to join them, a few clever ideas popping into his head, but he refrained, enjoying the peace the darkness had afforded him. 

He continued on towards the refreshment tables, which were now manned by three Hufflepuffs. He held out his goblet, and although the boy ladling out drinks hesitated, he didn’t skimp on the delicious spiked drink. Draco gave him a nod and something unspoken passed between them, an acknowledgement of the spirit of the evening. Feeling hopeful, he went in search of Potter and Weasley again, curious as to how their small team was faring. He didn’t get far before he noticed a lone figure sitting off to the side. The closer he got the more he could make out the curly brunette hair of Hermione Granger. Draco felt a spark of delight shiver down his spine at the sight of her sitting there, alone. He glanced around to see if anyone was paying him any mind—they weren’t. He continued on, and as he neared, his presence caught her attention. 

“Granger,” he said into the cold of the night, the single word expressing his shock and delight all at once. “I have to say I am surprised to see you out here. I didn’t know you were in the habit of breaking rules,” he admonished her playfully. “Mind if I join you?”

Granger slid over, though there was already plenty of room on the empty bench on either side of her. “Not everything can be about learning, Malfoy, even I know that,” she said in a wistful tone, her expression one of feigned regret. 

Draco chuckled, a low rumbling noise deep in his chest as he occupied the space beside her. He sat with a polite distance between them, but still he could feel the warmth of her pressing into the right side of his body, her heat like a corporeal barrier between them. It was only then that Draco realized his heating charm had failed him, warmed as he was by the whisky in his drink. Almost imperceptibly he brushed his fingers over his mouth, whispering a breath freshening charm to rid his mouth of the scent of cheap whisky. He looked over at her with bright grey eyes. “Regretfully,” he deadpanned, “not everyone can be as academic as the two of us, I suppose.” His voice was haughty, but his easy smile, lubricated with the relaxing properties of his drink, belied his tone. 

That got a small laugh out of Granger, and when she looked at him she seemed amused, though maybe a little unsure of Draco. He couldn’t blame her. He would never admit to being a lightweight but his drink was beginning to loosen his usual stuffy demeanour. He set down his goblet (probably a very wise choice) and hunched over, an elbow resting upon each knee. He swept a hand through his hair, which fluttered in the light breeze as the dim twinkling lights of the faeries their activities had drawn caught in the platinum blond strands. 

Granger cleared her throat before speaking, “I never pegged you as much of a bookworm,” she said evenly. 

Draco turned from where he had been surveying the glowing afterimages of the Quidditch players to look at her. He wanted to take offence to the comment but what she said was true; Draco had preferred to use others as a means to an end when it came to finishing his schoolwork in the past. It would be easy to mistake Draco’s actions as taking the easy route—well, ok so he _was_ taking the easy route, but the difference between Draco and your average lazy bum was that Draco actually did take time to learn what he had been taught in school. Many of the subjects taught at Hogwarts were things Draco had already covered over the summers he’d spent at the Manor. His father allowed him time to be social, as was expected by someone of such high standing as Draco, but Lucius was also firm on his stance that no heir of his would be stupid. He made sure that Draco was a learned man. Knowledge was power. All of his private tutoring served Draco in that it made his schooling look effortless.

Or, in the eyes of Granger, it made him look stupid.

“I know quite a bit about a lot of things, Granger, I’ll have you know,” he said playfully. “Take my Charm for example.” He rested his chin on the knuckles of his balled up hand, his expression gloating. “You said so yourself you thought it was simply the most brilliant bit of magic you’d ever seen.” 

Here Granger’s eyes narrowed. “I said nothing of the sort. It may have the potential to be great but there is much work that needs to be done before it gets there.” 

Draco straightened, his hand placed delicately against his chest. “You wound me,” he whispered dramatically. 

Granger rolled her eyes at him, her hand lifting to tuck a bit of hair behind her ear. Briefly, Draco got a glimpse of the soft curve of her neck, the skin pale against the harsh black of her collar. She spoke but he didn’t hear her, caught as he was by the flash of skin he had seen. He could imagine how warm to the touch the skin would be against the frosty tips of his fingers, the heat of it melting away the cold of the frigid air around them, melting _him_. 

“Malfoy?” 

Draco blinked. “Yes?” he said, his eyes focusing on hers as she frowned at him. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. Merlin, what was wrong with him? Why was he suddenly so interested in Granger’s neck? She’d always had a neck, hadn’t she? What made her neck any different than the neck it had been before? He was being ridiculous, sitting here fantasizing about—what? He wouldn’t even allow himself to finish that thought. It didn’t bear thinking. It had to be the drink, or maybe it was the novelty of talking to Granger out in the open. No, that wasn’t it, this wasn’t the first time he had found himself enchanted by her presence, the way she moved, her smile, her skin …but he was finding it more of a challenge to ignore just how intriguing he found her. 

The girls Draco usually went after were so very different than Granger. For one, they weren’t Gryffindor. For two, they usually came to him, sliding into his attentions as smoothly as butter off of a hot knife. Never had he felt interest in anyone who wasn’t already barking up his tree. Granger however…well not only was she not interested, she was completely out of his league. She was practically a hero with Draco acting as the resident villain. He could never live up to the expectations of her or anyone else that might have something to say on the matter. 

And in the end, underneath all the effort to change and want of a new start, Draco knew himself to be a bad person. You didn’t let Death Eaters into Hogwarts because you thought they just wanted to hang with the professors. You didn’t _become_ a Death Eater just because you thought the tattoo was cool. 

“—Of course, you weren’t listening.” Granger sounded vexed. 

Draco had the mind to look apologetic despite his frazzled thoughts. Did he have to have a self-realization every time he spoke to Granger? It was becoming a tiresome thing. “You’ll have to excuse me, Granger, the cider must have been a bit stronger than I expected,” he said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulder. “Could you repeat that?” 

Granger shook her head. “Oh, never mind.” She lifted her cup to her mouth and took a sip, her face screwing up at the taste as she swallowed. 

Draco was making a mess of everything again. It was as if being near Granger rearranged his whole mental circuitry. “Why aren’t you out on the pitch this evening?” he asked, a little too hastily for his liking. A change of subject seemed in order, the atmosphere growing dangerously uncomfortable after his lapse in attention. “You’d make a fine chaser, I’m sure of it.” 

+++

“Mind if I join you?” 

Hermione looked over to see a boy approaching her in the dark, the flickering lights of floating candles and the odd fairy zipping past sparking glints in his blonde hair. Draco Malfoy was sauntering along the mostly empty row in which she’d taken up residence, his school robes undone and flapping open over his uniform, which he’d taken care to relax since she’d seen him in the library earlier that afternoon: the top few buttons on his shirt undone, his tie loosened. He held a silver goblet in one hand which Hermione suspected he’d transfigured, far too classy to walk around with a plastic cup like the rest of the crowd. There was a faint flush on his sharp cheekbones that she didn’t think was entirely from the wind, likely he’d visited the punch bowl she’d passed on more than one occasion so far that evening. Malfoy looked far more relaxed than she thought she’d maybe ever seen him, and wasn’t sure if that was due to the atmosphere of the evening or goblet in his hand. Probably a little of both. 

Though she was sitting quite alone on her stretch of the viewer’s platform, Hermione shifted a few inches to the right, her body moving automatically in the fashion that indicated acceptance of a second person joining her there. Malfoy took a seat beside her, easily bantering with her about the shock of seeing her breaking rules, though she could hear a surprisingly genuine note of teasing beneath the mocking in his deep voice. She noted that though he kept an appropriate distance between them, he didn’t shy away from sitting close to her nonetheless, a fact which, when he leaned forward and ran his hands through his thick hair, drew Hermione’s eyes along with them. She blushed, unable to stop herself from thinking again of the way those hands had felt on her, however briefly. While she was busy fretting internally over an incident Malfoy had probably forgotten all about, he’d been nattering on about his academic prowess. Trying to sound like she was paying attention, she quickly cleared her throat and tossed back, “I never pegged you as much of a bookworm.” 

Malfoy looked vaguely affronted. His voice, when he responded, on the other hand, was low and meaningful. “I know quite a bit about a lot of things, Granger, I’ll have you know.” His grey eyes bored into hers and Hermione swallowed hard. Those words, in this dark, close, conversation, caused something in her stomach to flip over, a feeling that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Malfoy had a tiny smirk on his lips as he spoke, and she wondered if that sentence had sounded differently to him when he said it. “Take my Charm for example…” 

His _charm_ indeed, Hermione found herself thinking, as Malfoy ribbed her about her words during their very first meeting in the library, though it wasn’t the magical type which had drawn her thoughts more recently. Draco Malfoy could be extremely charismatic and even funny when he wanted to be, and the realization of these concepts, in association with the tall Slytherin boy sitting next to her, caused another odd sensation to wash over Hermione. She heard herself answer back cooly, trying not to let on how flustered she was feeling, as she self-consciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“If you’re really so sure of your intellect,” she continued, her eyes on the Gryffindor Quidditch team swooping past them, their magically glowing uniforms creating bizarre light patterns in the darkness, “then you’ll have something to show me the next time we meet.” She hadn’t been able to look at Malfoy directly when she said this, unsure of whether or not he really still wanted to meet up with her. She’d caused him a lot of trouble that past week; unintentionally, true, but he couldn’t be feeling that warmly toward her either way. Sure he was chatting her up now, but that could have as much to do with the drink in his hand has anything else. Glancing over at Malfoy to see his response, she found him staring at her with an unsettlingly intense look in his grey eyes. 

“Malfoy?” she questioned hesitantly, feeling goosebumps start to prick up over her arms as he continued to gape at her, his expression somewhat glazed over. Was he really so shocked at her comment? He’d been the one to bring up his Charm in the first place. Striving for annoyance over the strange sense of hurt that Malfoy’s silence had struck inside her, Hermione tightened her lips, muttering, “Of course you weren’t listening,” and shooting the boy beside her a dark look. 

Malfoy blinked, seeming to come out of a daze, and Hermione wondered if it was whisky that had dulled his response time. As Malfoy straightened, his mouth full of smooth apologies, she shook her head, almost laughing to herself, exasperated at her own overthinking. “Oh never mind,” she said quickly, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a quick, strong, sip, then making a face, having forgotten for the moment what was in the cup she held. 

“Why aren’t you out on the pitch this evening?” Malfoy said suddenly, his question coming out a bit too fast and pulling Hermione’s eyes back his way, over the rim of the cup she’d been subconsciously hiding behind. “You’d make a fine chaser, I’m sure of it.” 

Before Hermione could answer this question, maybe say something along the lines of how Malfoy’s asking something like that showed just how well he _didn’t_ know her, something liquid zipped through the air and sloshed across the wooden platform at their feet. Looking up in surprise, and wondering if had begun to rain, Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock, followed a second later by Malfoy’s similar reaction. A moment later the pair of them flinched backwards, throwing themselves to opposite ends of the bench as a a plastic cup dropped out of the air, bouncing across the ground between them and followed almost immediately by a figure on a broomstick, who skidded across the platform several feet before coming to a stop. 

“Oops, watch out for showers,” came the cheerful, boisterous, and clearly drunk, voice of Blaise Zabini, as he swung his leg off his broomstick and threw himself onto the bench in the space Hermione and Malfoy had vacated. 

“Watch where you’re flying, you git,” Malfoy growled, still glaring at Zabini as he sat up, waving his wand to Vanish the punch Blaise had just dumped from the sky. Zabini looked unabashed. 

“We just creamed both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” he announced loudly. “I have every right to celebrate. The next match is against Gryffindor and if they’ve been having as much of this excellent punch as our team has, we’ll knock them off their brooms.” He guffawed rather obnoxiously, looking around himself as he did so, perhaps to see if anyone else was around to appreciate his boast, then noticing Hermione half-sprawled on the bench on his other side. He leered at her. “Granger,” Zabini drawled, eying her as Hermione pushed up off the bench where she’d flung herself to clear his uncharted landing zone. “I should have known _you’d_ be here.” He put a strange emphasis on these words, flickering a glance over at Malfoy before turning his dark gaze on her again. 

“Of course I’m here,” she said, forcing herself to meet Blaise’s eyes. “My friends are playing.” 

“Mmm,” Zabini mused, narrowing his eyes at her while Hermione frowned back, feeling annoyed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Granger—or do, as your type seem apt to do—but you really don’t seem the sort to frequent these types of events.” He eyed her cup and raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I bet you’ve transfigured that into Butterbeer or something, too.” 

Biting back a retort on the logistics of Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration, Hermione shoved her cup under Blaise’s nose where he’d be unable to help smelling the whisky clearly lacing her cider. “Merlin knows it would taste better if I had.” Blaise looked almost like he wanted to laugh at this response. 

“Aren’t you full of surprises tonight, Granger?” the Slytherin boy said smoothly, running his eyes over her with a faint sense of approval. “Why don’t you come for a ride with me?” he said suddenly, swinging a leg back over his broomstick and kicking off just enough that he was levitating at level with the railing that ran the length of the stands. The smirk on his face told Hermione that he doubted she’d take him up on his offer, but the hand he’d closed around her wrist suggested he might not let her refuse. 

Pulled to her feet by the unexpected tug on her wrist, Hermione stumbled forward, dropping her plastic cup and glaring at Zabini, who looked highly amused at her reaction, his eyes glittering and his broom swaying sharply as he fumbled to hold it steady without letting her go. 

“N-no thank-you,” she said quickly, trying to pull back without letting the jolt of anxiety that had spiked through her at Blaise’s drunk teasing show. He’d backed his broomstick out over the railing now, but hadn’t let go of her wrist, so Hermione found herself yanked right up to edge, the base of the pitch swaying alarmingly as a sense of vertigo washed over her. She tried to pull her arm back but Blaise only laughed and tugged again, causing Hermione to pitch up against the railing and grab hold of it with her free arm, clutching tightly. “I—really… It’s not my— I’d rather just watch—” She tried to laugh carelessly, but the sound came out high-pitched and anxious, and she caught her breath sharply when Blaise gave her wrist another _playful_ tug, causing Hermione to lean out over the railing. She shut her eyes tightly. 

“Come on, Granger,” came Blaise’s mocking voice. “Let’s see some of those Gryffindor guts you lot are supposed to famous for.”

Just then there was a rustle of clothing, as if someone had gotten to their feet rather abruptly. Her eyes still firmly shut, Hermione became aware of a presence on her left, and then a second hand closed around her other wrist, covering her hand and pinning it securely to the railing. 

“If you keep yanking at Granger’s arms, Zabini,” came the cool voice of Draco Malfoy in her ear, making Hermione aware of just how close he was suddenly standing behind her, “you’re going to be seeing those Gryffindor guts all over the pitch.” Malfoy’s tone was casual, but his hand over hers was firm, and somehow Hermione felt sure that no matter what Blaise did, Malfoy wouldn’t let her fall. 

There was a moment in which Hermione felt trapped between the two Slytherin boys, one in the air and one on the ground, stumbling slightly from side to side while Blaise bobbed unsteadily in the air, pulling her arm with him, but then he let her go, popping up like a cork, then back down again, a jeer twisting his handsome features. 

“All talk and no action, Granger,” he muttered, looking somewhat disgusted with her. “Pity.” A moment later he’d shot off into the night, heading back toward the gathering Quidditch players preparing for the final showdown of the evening. 

As soon as Zabini had flown off, Hermione expected Malfoy to step away from her. It would have been easier for her if he had, she already felt embarrassed enough as it was, and having him standing so close to her that he could probably feel the way she was trembling wasn’t helping matters. “I—I think I need to sit down,” she said at last, moving discreetly out from in front of him and sliding her hand free. Malfoy remained next to the railing for a moment, not quite meeting her eyes while she backed up to the benches and quickly sat back down, trying to hide the way her knees shook. 

“Well this explains why you’re not up there bossing Potter and the Weasley’s about,” he finally said, his voice neutral but his expression calculating. “You’re afraid of heights.” He sounded vaguely incredulous. 

“I’m a terrible flyer,” Hermione allowed, taking slow, steadying breaths until she felt under control again. “I don’t… well… I’m not so great with heights, as you’ve noticed.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her, clearly wondering why she was perched up in the Quidditch stands like a stranded bird if she had this phobia. “I mean,” she added, flushing slightly, “flying isn’t something I can just learn out of a book. Knowing the facts and statistics of the act are one thing, but you need a reasonable amount of confidence and talent to ride a broom—” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself. When she was nervous, Hermione talked, trying to calm herself with reason and fact, and flying made her more anxious than practically anything else. “I mean, I took introductory flying in first year, but Madam Hooch pretty much told me that if I couldn’t get over my anxiety, I’d better sharpen up on Apparition once I was of age. Or invest in a solid pair of walking shoes.” She gave a little laugh, though the sound felt hollow, the metallic taste of fear still strong in her mouth. 

Malfoy took a step toward her then, and she snapped her mouth shut, sitting straighter and attempting to look dignified. The look in his grey eyes stated clearly that he wasn’t fooled by her false bravado. “Come on, Granger,” Malfoy said abruptly, nodding his head back toward the far end of the pitch. “You need another drink.” 

For a moment Hermione stared, bemused. Then realization hit her that maybe this was Malfoy’s way of trying to make her feel better. If it had been Harry or Ron here, Hermione would have felt perfectly comfortable in throwing her arms around them and letting the warm, solid, feel of her friend’s embrace comfort her, but this was Malfoy, and she had the feeling he might not take well to her flinging herself at him. After all, the last time it had happened, accidental or not, he’d pushed her away rather quickly. So after a beat of silence, in which she processed this offer, Hermione got to her feet and followed Malfoy to the end of the stands and down the stairs, until they reached the main level of the pitch. 

After they’d been walking a few minutes the silence started to feel awkward again. “Thanks,” she made herself say, glancing up at Malfoy as she walked a pace behind him while he threaded his way through the milling crowd, leading them both toward the punch table. He slanted a curious look her way and she hurried on, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. “For before, with Zabini.” Malfoy turned to look at her again as she spoke and Hermione rushed on, feeling twice as awkward now than when they’d been saying nothing at all. “I mean, I know you’re friends and all, and, well—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Malfoy cut in with an elegant shrug, though he looked tense. “Blaise is a tosser when when he gets into cheap whisky. He always says muggle alcohol isn’t refined enough for his discerning palate.” 

Hermione cut a look of her own at the boy beside her. “So he’s less of a prat when he’s had wizard whisky?” she asked dryly, and Malfoy’s gaze shot to hers, looking, for a bizarre moment, like he wanted to laugh. 

“Merlin, no,” he said instead, with a loud snort of disgust. “He’s worse.” The look on Malfoy’s face was caught between amusement and annoyance, and Hermione thought just then that it might not be exactly easy to be Blaise Zabini’s friend.

+++

Blaise descended upon them like a train wreck, with a spray of cider as the only warning of his arrival. He swung a leg over his broomstick, dismounting with all the finesse of seal on land. He called a greeting to them, his voice loud and cheerful in a manner that could only be borne of intoxication. If that wasn’t proof enough of his inebriation, the careless way in which he splayed himself on the bench Draco and Granger had hastily vacated told all. Blaise was unfazed by his irritation, and Draco cleaned up the mess his friend had made with a proficient slash of his wand. 

“….we’ll knock them off their brooms,” Blaise bragged, his eyes searching out the approval of those around him. When he found none, his attentions moved to Granger, who stood from her awkward position on the bench. “Granger,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue in obscene purr. Draco didn’t like what the Slytherin was insinuating with his next words, Draco’s eyes cutting to Granger to see if she picked up on it, but she didn’t seem put off. Instead she met Blaise’s eyes head on and Draco spared a moment to be impressed by her, again. She could hold her own, he knew, but Blaise was a challenge to manage when he had his senses about him. Drunk as he was now, Blaise tended to be a lot less picky about how he chose his words, aiming for maximum impact. 

The sound of plastic hitting wood brought Draco’s attention back to the scene before him. Blaise had Granger by the wrist, and Draco took a second to wonder when the boy had mounted his broom again. He was tugging at her so that she was edging further and further out over the pitch, her feet scrambling to maintain their place on solid ground. Granger’s voice was tight as she refused him, her body pulling backwards against Blaise’s insistent tugging. But her strength was no match for that of Blaise, his leverage increasing as he slowly drifted further away. Draco should help her; too much more of Blaise’s _persuasion_ and Granger would end up dead, splattered across the grass below. But… and maybe it was an idiotic time to remember this, but Granger had told him she could handle herself, that she didn’t need Draco saving her, so he sat, forcing himself to leave well enough alone. Still he could feel the flush of anger all over his skin, his heart thudding in his chest as he watched Blaise antagonize her. He would have the boy’s head for this later. 

Granger laughed as she begged him off, but the noise, high and tight, was cut short at another sharp pull from Blaise, which caused the upper part of her body to clear the railing before her, her eyes shutting tight as the wind swept at her clothes and hair. 

Draco, feeling his lip curl, had had enough. With heat flaring up inside him, he stood and closed the small distance between them. He grabbed Granger’s wrist, warm and thin where the fabric had pulled up, placing her hand so that it held firmly onto the railing. “If you keep yanking at Granger’s arms, Zabini, you’re going to be seeing those Gryffindor guts all over the pitch,” he warned the boy, his words iron clad and cold as winter between them. The use of his sir name caught Blaise’s attention, and for a moment their eyes met in a silent battle, with Draco not giving an inch. Blaise looked away first, his hand releasing the hold it had on Granger. He shot up, his drunken mind forgetting to account for the lack of balance Granger’s weight had provided, but he settled down so that he was hovering levelly with them, his expression warped with annoyance and superiority. “All talk and no action, Granger. Pity.” Draco watched as Blaise sped off towards the other players. 

The Slytherin’s pride had taken a blow, having to back down from Draco and in front of another, it was obvious in his deflection towards Granger, but Draco didn’t care. Blaise was turning out to be more of a bloody menace than usual and Draco’s patience was wearing thin. Granger trembled; he could feel it in the small space between them and he stayed, ready to catch her if she felt too weak to hold herself upright, but she stepped away and he could feel the warmth of her words against his neck for an instant as she moved to put distance between them, her hand slipping from his grip. He felt a tinge of regret as she took an unsteady step towards the benches to sit. He stood there against the railing, stuck in the moment as he tried to clear his thoughts. He couldn’t look at her, sure that he gave himself away as he lingered. He turned to her as he realized something. 

“Well this explains why you’re not up there bossing Potter and the Weasleys about,” he said, aiming not for accusation, but for objectivity. Still he found it astonishing that heights would be one of Granger’s faults. This was a woman who’d helped fell one of the most evil Wizards the magical world had known. “You’re afraid of heights.” 

“I’m a terrible flyer,” Granger admitted, her breathing fixed and purposeful. He couldn’t help it, he raised an eyebrow at her as she continued, stating the obvious. And as if a dam had broken loose somewhere in her brain, she babbled on about learning to fly, and Madam Hooch. Something about walking shoes? He would have found her amusing if she wasn’t so obviously shaken by what had happened. Instead he felt his stomach twist as she talked. He looked about them, at his goblet sitting a few inches from where Granger sat, at her own plastic cup where it lay, abandoned, near his foot, and out over his shoulder where Blaise was an indistinguishable blur in a flurry of radiant dots. 

He turned toward her, taking a step forward, which effectively halted her spiel. She straightened then, trying her best to look as if everything were fine, but she didn’t fool Draco. “Come on, Granger. You need another drink.” 

She looked at him, silent, and he thought she would refuse. He noticed that her drink, spilled and banished, had remained stubbornly full despite the chill of the night and the time that had passed since everyone had arrived on the pitch. He felt his stomach plummet at the refusal he saw there, but she stood and followed a couple steps behind him as they made their way across the stands and down onto the pitch, still buzzing with activity. They walked in silence, though Draco didn’t mind, still riding off of the relief that she’d agreed to his suggestion. It wasn’t as though he could do much more for her. She was clearly uncomfortable with Draco getting too close to her, so he couldn’t offer a more familiar show of comforting. Not that he felt such an action wise. Touching Granger set Draco’s nerves on fire with a pleasant buzz he wasn’t accustomed to, and in the face of this new feeling Draco floundered. 

“Thanks,” He heard off to the side where Granger trailed him. He looked over at her, a question plain in his grey eyes. She continued, “For before, with Zabini,” she clarified. “…you’re friends and all and, well—”

_Friends_. Such a strong, opposing word to what Draco was feeling about Blaise just at that moment. He had been grateful when the other boy had taken to him again, introducing him back into Slytherin society. It was a kind gesture in a sense, though Draco knew Blaise would recall the favour at some later date. It certainly helped Draco have an easier time of it at Hogwarts, but for all that Blaise had completely blown it tonight. Neither of them had mentioned Draco’s changing feelings toward Granger, but he would be a sore fool to assume the boy was unaware, and Blaise’s actions tonight had proved as much. Drunk and high from a win, Blaise had boldly put his foot in it, tossing Draco’s trust in his face with the force of summer storm. He supposed that the bonds forged between Slytherins were a tentative thing what with all the unity being pressed upon them. The line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ was a hazy one, and though Draco believed Hogwarts to be better for it, the consequences were surprising. 

Draco felt the ease with which he’d travelled the pitch leaching out of him, though his shrug was disinterested. “Don’t worry about it. Blaise is a tosser when he gets into cheap whisk. He always says muggle alcohol isn’t refined enough for his discerning palate.” 

The look Granger gave him was doubtful, her tone stark as she said, “So he’s less of a prat when he’s had Wizards’s whisky?” 

Draco nearly laughed at the idea that Blaise could be anything but a top shelf knob when drinking. His eyebrows drew together as he spoke, his lips hinting at mirth. “Merlin no, he’s worse.” 

Granger looked perplexed and somewhat pitying. “I don’t get it,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Why continue to be friends with someone you don’t like?” 

And when put so conspicuously, it did seem stupid to hang on to Blaise’s friendship, but it wasn’t so cut and dry when it came to Slytherins. “It’s all very tedious if I’m to be honest with you,” Draco replied, a sigh heavy in his voice. “It’s just the way we communicate. We’re all just waiting for one of us to stab the other in the back,” he said matter-of-factly, used to the convoluted ways in which his house operated. “Until then, we take advantage of each other while we can. It’s like a game. Prepares us for real life.” He glanced over at her, his eyes lidded as if to show he knew what a mess it all sounded. 

Hermione looked reproachful. “That’s not a very positive outlook to have. Why not just be honest with each other from the start about what you want? Then there wouldn’t have to be any backstabbing.” 

“Granger, Granger,” Draco tisked, his lazy smile imparting his thoughts on her naiveté. “Slytherin would skin your alive.” He huffed out a laugh. “No, to be honest is to be vulnerable…it’s a weakness that anyone could take advantage of. It’s easier to get the person you’re talking to, to believe it was their idea, rather than reveal there is something you actually want.” 

“That just doesn’t make sense,” Granger argued. “It seems more complicated to me having to con your friends into doing something for you. How can you trust anyone if that’s how things get done?” 

“That’s the root of it, you can’t trust anyone!” Draco exclaimed, and quiet fell around them as everyone turned to see who had caused the disturbance. Conversation quickly resumed, but as Draco glanced about he saw that the students passing by looked upon them warily, suspicious of them, of _him_. Draco breathed out quietly, letting the tension melt from his body, his face molding back into polite neutrality. Beside him, Granger walked quietly, her eyebrows raised as she looked up at him. 

Silence hung between them for a moment before she spoke again, her voice only loud enough for his ears. “Putting your trust in the hands of another is a risk, I will admit that,” she began. “But the bond you gain from trusting someone else implicitly is…it’s priceless. I don’t know how we could have…” She trailed off, her eyes growing distant with memories Draco could only guess at. She blinked rapidly after a moment and her eyes focused on him once again. “Maybe you should try trusting people, Malfoy; the right people. I’m sure you’ll be surprised at what you might find.” 

Draco mulled Granger’s words over in his mind. Trusting the right people. Trusting people in general. Who were the right people? How would Draco find them? Would they even give him a chance? It was a flowery thought for sure, one that might brighten the day of some fresh Gryffindor still wet behind the ears, but for a seasoned Slytherin like himself, the words held little solace. He forced himself to smile as he looked down at her. “Granger, Vanquisher of Dark Lords, Smartest Witch of her generation, Life coach. What can’t you do?” he jested, an eyebrow rising in question as he grinned softly. 

Granger knew Draco was changing the subject, he could tell by the look she gave him, but she went along with it, rolling her eyes as they reached the refreshment tables. “Fly a broomstick, maybe?” she supplied. 

Laughter threatened to shake loose from deep within, but Draco suppressed it, only allowing his grin to broaden. “I suppose you’re right,” he gestured for another drink, his eyes lingering on Granger’s as the Hufflepuff filled a plastic cup from the punch bowl. She looked back at him with a boldness he hadn’t expected, mirth dancing in her eyes as she watched him struggle to contain his laughter. 

“Would you like a refill?” 

Draco looked around at the offending voice, and it took a great deal of patience not to snatch the cup being held out to him. He took it graciously, handing it to Granger and accepted a generous scoop of cider in his own goblet. “Thank you,” he said kindly and the two of them wandered away from the table. 

“Why aren’t you heading up Slytherin on the pitch tonight?” Granger said, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her. 

Draco took a sip of his drink before he answered. “Thought I’d let the kids have their fun. Nothing like the presence of a Death Eater to bring the fun to a crashing halt.” 

Granger flinched at the mention of Draco having been a Death Eater, the easy way she’d carried herself as they walked along replaced as her body tightened. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, and Draco couldn’t quite read her tone. 

He glanced at her curiously. She couldn’t have forgotten that detail, could she? “Yes, well,” He waved his drink through the air, feeling uneasy at the way Granger’s mood had changed. “Part of changing is being more aware of those around you,” he admitted, trying at being truthful for once. 

Although she still wasn’t as relaxed as before, Granger’s eyes softened at his words. “All you can do is try,” she agreed. 

They’d reached another table, this one laden with sweets of various degrees of danger to whoever imbibed them. Draco leaned over the table with interest, surveying the colourful spread before them. “Hungry?” he asked, glancing over at Granger. This table was unattended, so Draco was free to snag three chocolate frogs, still wrapped tight in their cardboard enclosures. He pocketed two of them, and gave the metal band of the third a sharp pull, his grey eyes shining like new sickles, alight with childish glee at the simple pleasure of opening a chocolate frog. He crumpled the outer covering, holding the Wizarding card up so that he could make out the tiny portrait painted into it. The chocolate frog, seeing its chance, scuttled to the edge of its pentagon platform and gave a great leap. Draco, his eyes still glued to the miniature painting, shot out a hand and captured the frog before the wind could carry it away. It wriggled fruitlessly before it’s brown body solidified, spending what little magic remained inside of it. 

He took a bite absentmindedly, his teeth halving the chocolate frog with ease. He chewed and swallowed before he spoke, turning the Wizarding card toward Granger so that she could see. “Would you have a look at that,” he said with a smirk and a faint shake of his head. 

Granger stared at the small picture, a moment passing before horrified recognition crossed her features as she snatched it from his grasp. “Please tell me this is a joke,” she whispered, sounding scandalized. 

Granger’s eyes flickered between Draco and the card in her hands, and Draco had to quickly school his features into aloof surprise. “You saw me open the chocolate frog, it was no trick of mine.” Of course, Draco wasn’t surprised to see the card held the likeness of Hermione J. Granger. Not many knew he liked to collect Wizarding cards, the pastime being a silly, infantile indulgence on his part. 

He remembered the day he had first run across Granger’s card. He had been touring the manor grounds, his mind needing a reprieve from the work of his charm and overbearing presence of his father’s disapproval. The house elves were well aware that Draco favoured chocolate frogs—they kept his growing collection of cards in pristine order where he had them stashed in the back of an armoire—and had taken care to slip one into the pocket of his robes for that day. He’d been delighted when he’d pulled the candy from his pocket. Imagine his shock when the face staring back at him had been none other than Granger’s, her mouth tilted up at the corner as if taunting the viewer with the knowledge of a secret known only to her. When she realized it was Draco who looked back at her, those sharp brown eyes narrowed. He quickly pocketed the card, but made sure it made its way amongst his collection, nonetheless. 

Of course, there had been no way for Draco to know that he’d picked that specific card, just now, but he relished the surprise on Granger’s face upon showing it to her. To be truthful he was shocked that Potter or Weasley hadn’t alighted her to the knowledge that her visage now graced the collectible cards, to be swapped and traded along with Hogwarts famous founders and great Wizards like Albus Dumbledore. 

It seemed the powers that be had a sense of humour after all. 

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised,” Draco said, his eyes crinkling at the corners despite himself. “No one accomplishes what you have and doesn’t end up glorified in Wizarding card form.” 

Granger huffed. “You would think I’d be asked if I _wanted_ to be glorified,” she muttered, moving to bin the collectible, but Draco stopped her with a sharp movement of his hand 

“Ah, ah, that’s my card, Granger,” he said with a sly smile, his hand open and waiting. 

Granger frowned at him. “You’re not _keeping_ it, are you?” she asked, the same shocked horror from before lacing her voice.

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a collectible,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her teasingly. She handed the card over reluctantly, and Draco pocketed it, not caring to impart to her that he had one just like it already. He took pleasure in imagining just what might be going through that pretty head of hers as she puzzled out Draco's reasons for keeping it. 

_Pretty head?_ he thought, with a gulp he hoped went unnoticed. With a mental shrug, Draco accepted the thought for what it was. He could think whatever he wanted, that didn't mean anything would have to change, right? He would just have to be careful that his thoughts weren't obvious to Granger, or to anyone else. Anyone other than Blaise, who was already well aware of how Draco was beginning to feel.

+++


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

“Granger, Slytherin would skin your alive.” 

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy at these words. He’d said them mildly enough, though he’d let loose an exasperated sort of laugh right after. She supposed he was right, compared to the sort of people he spent most of his time with, she was probably woefully naive. Despite her many and varied life experiences, she’d always lived under the belief that honesty was the best policy. True, this had led to several annoyed reactions from her friends, and a reputation for being something of a know-it-all, but that hadn’t deterred her. Well, except for recently, with her new… friendship?… with the boy walking next to her in the crowd. But still, as Malfoy continued on, explaining the interactions of those of his house, Hermione couldn’t understand why anyone would put themselves through the stress of such constant scheming. It sounded exhausting. She tried to explain the peace and security she felt from the trust she had in her closest friends, though she wasn’t sure Malfoy truly understood. He’d listened thoughtfully enough, but if it was true what he’d said about allowing yourself to show an ounce of vulnerability and ending up with a knife in your back being part and parcel of daily life in Slytherin house, it might have been that it was a very long time, if ever, since he’d allowed himself to do the same. 

They’d reached the refreshments table now, and Hermione accepted a new plastic cup of cider from the Hufflepuff boy manning the punch bowl, refraining from rolling her eyes as Malfoy held out his silver goblet, and smiling a little to herself over the absurd ostentatiousness of it in comparison to to the red solo cup she held. She hadn’t really wanted more cider, but it was the thought that counted in her books, so she accepted it gratefully nonetheless. It occurred to her then that Malfoy had been a prominent part of the Slytherin Quidditch team during their years at school before the war, and she’d glimpsed him on the pitch between classes now and then since the new school year had started, so why wasn’t he playing tonight? She’d have thought he’d have jumped at the chance to show off his skills, especially when there were no teachers around to enforce strict rules. When she asked him about it though, his answer pulled her up short. 

“…Nothing like the presence of a Death Eater to bring the fun to a crashing halt.” 

Hermione flinched and nearly stopped walking. She couldn’t help it. He’d said the words with a casual sort of bluntness, as if he was more than aware of what they’d mean to her. Her eyes shot to his left arm, held close to his chest as he lifted his goblet to take a sip, his eyes scanning the pitch momentarily before meeting hers, a challenge in them. It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten Draco Malfoy had been a Death Eater, or at least intimidated into their ranks during the last few years of school, not really. It was just that he was so different now, in a way she couldn’t really describe. He was still cooly arrogant, overconfident, and intimidating, but he was also… well, not exactly kind, but more considerate than he’d been before the War. He’d thanked the Hufflepuff boy at the drinks table instead of sneering at him as if he was beneath his notice; he was less antagonistic when confronted with Harry and Ron; and he’d intervened when Blaise Zabini had been taunting her just now. Those weren’t the marks of someone who was truly a convert to the dark side. She knew how much Malfoy loved playing Quidditch, it was plain in his eyes the same way she saw the love of flying, strategizing, and, of course, winning, was in Harry, Ron, and Ginny’s. It must have been a big deal to him to step back and refuse to play tonight. Especially as he wasn’t he was the only person here tonight connected to the Death Eaters, though he was, perhaps, the most well known considering his actions involving Dumbledore. 

As if he could read her thoughts, Malfoy mused aloud, “Part of changing is being more aware of those around you.” These words pulled her eyes back to him again. It was certainly true that Malfoy’s actions had been different so far this year. It wasn’t as if he’d become soft, more as if the sharp edges of his personality had smoothed slightly. Hermione found she didn’t mind being around Draco Malfoy so much when he was like this; in fact, she was starting to enjoy talking with him and getting to know him better. 

Malfoy walked on, leading her to a nearby table filled with food. He scooped up several chocolate frog cards, pocketing a few and tearing open another. Hermione was inspecting an array of sugar quills, wondering who’d made the illicit trip into Hogsmeade for snacks, when suddenly Malfoy was holding something out in front of her face, the smirk on his lips nearly losing the battle with a full-blown grin. There was a glint in his grey eyes that bespoke anticipation of her reaction to whatever he was showing her, and after a few seconds of squinting at the object Malfoy held, lit by the flickering candlelight overhead, Hermione realized why he was so amused. 

She stared at the card in the Slytherin’s hand, blinking at it owlishly as if the picture on it must be a trick of the light. Snatching the card from Malfoy’s unresisting fingers, she considered it closely. Ron would have considered this the crowning glory to his life, even Harry would likely have been thrilled, but as Hermione gaped at the miniature image of herself she felt irritated. It was so trivial, putting people’s faces on trading cards as if their life’s work was nothing more than a game to be played among children. 

When she looked over at Malfoy again, he was watching her closely. There was still humour in his eyes, but he regarded her with an strange sort of seriousness as he commented, “No one accomplishes what you have and doesn’t end up glorified in wizarding card form.” 

He was teasing her, she knew it, but even as she grumbled about the indignity of not being asked for her input on being added to the chocolate frog empire, Malfoy’s words struck a cord with her. She wouldn’t have thought he’d have considered her role in Harry’s quest that vital. She knew she’d helped, been an important form of support and help for Harry; it would have been self-deprecating to the point of ridiculousness to pretend otherwise, it was just that having Malfoy be one of the people to acknowledge her accomplishments was confusing to all she knew of his character. 

Hermione wondered briefly if Harry or Ron had come across her card in their many visits to Honeydukes. Surely one of them would have said something, neither of them would have missed the opportunity to tease her over her reaction to something so shallow as having a chocolate frog card. Of course, Hermione hadn’t heard of either of them having discovered their faces on a card yet either, so maybe all three of their cards were considered ‘rare’ in the trading game. While this thought sent a vain little impulse of pleasure through her, Hermione squelched back the feeling and turned to toss her card in the bin next to the food table. She didn't need the evidence around where anyone could stumble across it in future. 

Just before the card slipped from her fingers, a large hand appeared under her nose, causing Hermione to look up, startled. Malfoy had moved around in front of her, an eyebrow raised at her look of indignation. Surely he didn’t— He wasn’t actually going to— 

“That’s my card, Granger,” Malfoy said, flicking his fingers a little imperiously as he waited for her to return it. 

“You’re not keeping it are you?” she demanded, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks as Malfoy eyed her, unmoving, until she finally released the card, turning to tuck it away into a pocket of his robes with a causal comment on its collectability. Briefly, Hermione considered that all boys must be alike in this aspect. Muggle boys traded baseball cards, wizard boys obsessed over chocolate frog cards. But the fact that Malfoy had claimed ownership over a card with her face on it sent an unexplainable feeling through her. 

Quickly she picked up a sugar quill at random and stuck it in her mouth, turning away from the amused smirk on Malfoy’s face and walking a few paces away to look up at the glowing blurs zipping around against the dark background of the night like fireflies, hoping he couldn’t see the conflicting feelings clear in her eyes. After a moment she heard him step up beside her, his eyes also on the sky. 

“Who do you think will take the match?” she asked after a few more seconds of silence, glancing between the players high above them, and the boy beside her. She found Malfoy already looking at her and a little jolt went through her chest. He grinned then, confidence all over his face. 

“Definitely Slytherin,” he replied, and Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

“Gryffindor have won the House Cup several years in a row, you know.” 

Malfoy looked amused. “True, but that was without the aid of alcohol and with the restrictions of professors. Tell me honestly that you don't think things will play out a little differently tonight?” He was teasing her again, she could tell, though there was some truth to his words. 

“Well, be that is it may,” Hermione acknowledged, turning her eyes back to the match and trying to ignore the absurdity of bantering casually with Draco Malfoy about Quidditch, “but Slytherin also has Zabini wrecking havoc in the air.” Next to her, Hermione thought she heard Malfoy smother a snort of laughter, and was visited with the realization that he had a nice laugh when he allowed himself to express it naturally. She hurried on before she could dwell too much on this idea, and added, almost without realizing what she was saying, “And they don’t have you.” 

Malfoy’s laugh cut off abruptly, and she couldn’t help turning to see what was the matter. There was a thinly veiled look of surprise on the taller boy’s face, though he schooled his features quickly, a smirk sliding back into place as he regained his composure. 

“Why Granger, I didn’t know you thought so highly of me.” 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she returned quickly, a hand rising to wind a finger in her hair as Hermione looked hurriedly back up at the sky. “Everyone knows you can fly. Even Harry’s admitted that games are easier when you don’t play in them.” Malfoy didn’t say anything to this, and in the silence that followed Hermione had the impression that he was mulling over her words. She had expected him to reply with some sarcastic comment like ‘Of course Potter is relieved when I’m off the pitch. He actually has a chance to catch the Snitch.’ But Malfoy remained quiet. 

Footsteps sounded behind them then, followed by the sound of voices as a group of people strolled toward the sweets table a few feet from where Hermione and Malfoy stood in the shadows. One loud voice rose above the throng, boasting over-loudly about something, and Hermione stiffened, wondering if Blaise Zabini had abandoned his game above. There was something about Zabini that made Hermione unaccountably nervous, in the way that a small animal knows that the creature watching it, unmoving in the grass, could, at any moment, leap out at it, teeth flashing, death imminent. And despite his usually smooth and controlled way of carrying himself—when he wasn’t absolutely hammered—Zabini had a predatory look in his dark eyes, as if he was constantly looking for the weakest animal in the herd, ready to pick it off.

“—you should have seen him,” said the dark-haired boy in the middle of the crowd, grinning maliciously as he plucked a sugar quill from the picked-over candy selection, waving it in the air like a wand. “Doubling over like the coward he is, right in the middle of class. He didn’t even cry out when the curse hit; likely thought he was acting the hard man, but we all know he was just too afraid to let anyone know what was happening. Not so tough without his mates around to back him up, eh?” 

Beside her Hermione could practically feel the way Malfoy went rigid. She looked at him curiously, then turned to see who was trash-talking behind them. She was unsurprised to see Michael Corner surrounded by impressed minions, though the site of the formerly polite, if over-achieving, Ravenclaw with such a condescending sneer on his face made her feel cold inside. Hermione recalled the conversations she’d overheard in the halls the other day, of people congratulating Michael. It sounded now like he’d been bullying someone, and Hermione felt her hackles rise. She didn’t care that Ginny had once dated Michael, didn’t care that he’d been in the DA with her; Michael was starting to sound more Slytherin by the day and she wasn’t going to stand for it. Turning sharply, Hermione had taken two steps toward Michael, fury on her face, when a hand clamped down on her shoulder, holding her back. 

“Leave it,” came Malfoy’s voice in her ear, and Hermione glared up at him, furious, trying to shrug out of his grip. “People like him get what’s coming to them in the end,” Malfoy continued, his voice hard and an unreadable look on his face. The hand on her shoulder gripped uncomfortably tight, though he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes still on the Ravenclaw slashing his sugar quill through the air in a reenactment of something, grinning as the crowd around him roared with laughter. 

There was something strangely ominous in Malfoy’s tone, and Hermione eyed him narrowly after she managed to shake his hand off. Before she could demand to know what he meant, a shower of colourful sparks exploded over the pitch, the colours of the winning house lighting the sky like fireworks. Michael and his posse looked up, then wandered off into the crowd, and Hermione was left with an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding, even as the people around her began to cheer the winning team.

+++

“Definitely Slytherin,” Draco replied with confidence at Granger's inquiry on who would take the match. She expressed her doubt but Draco quickly disillusioned her, explaining that Slytherin had the lack of supervision on their side. If there was anything his team knew how to do, it was to win without exactly cheating. Bending the rules was an art form. You just had to watch any of the games they played officially to see the proof of that. Draco could recall several times in which Hooch had stopped the game over some perceived wrongdoing on Slytherin’s part, only to hem and haw when pressed on what they did wrong. Draco snorted a barely suppressed laugh at the mention of Zabini. It was probably true that the boy was working more against Slytherin than for them in his current state. Her next words cut his laugh short though, and he looked over at her in surprise at her admission that he was skilled on the pitch. Granger had caught his expression, but his mouth quickly eased into a self-assured smirk. 

“Why Granger, I didn’t know you thought so highly of me,” he teased, undeterred as she quickly explained away the compliment. Her finger lifted to hook onto a brown ringlet of hair, twirling in a motion Draco was swiftly learning meant she was uneasy. He let the silence stretch between them as he thought. There was no doubt that Draco posed a challenge to Potter on the pitch. If he hadn’t been so distracted by the challenges presented to him during those last few years, he was sure Slytherin would have risen to crush Gryffindor, or at least the rate with which each house won would have been a more even one. But Draco was being side tracked from the real revelation here: Granger was aware of his prowess, and though she had tried to cover her obvious attention to his flying with her usual factual observations, Draco was still pleased by this. He resisted the urge to preen under her praise. 

A familiar voice drew his attention as Michael Corner and his usual group of cronies approached from behind, casually picking at the refreshments before them as Corner boasted about cursing Draco earlier that week. At once his blood ran hot, then cold at the sight of him, his muscles clenching tight to his bones as he listened to the arrogance of the Ravenclaw. Draco was struck with a disorienting sense of déjà vu as he realized that he was witnessing what it must have been like to listen to his own gloating. Had he come across as childish as Corner sounded just then, daring those around him to disagree with him? He was sure he had and it only served to compound the embarrassment that hung just below the surface of his conscience at the person he used to be. Beside him, Granger turned so sharply her robes flared about her ankles, in a way that would have surely called Corner’s attention to her if they hadn’t been standing just out of candlelight. 

Draco realized she meant to confront Corner and he stopped her with a firm hand to the shoulder. “Leave it,” he said so that only she could hear, his throat tight with hard emotion. “People like him get what’s coming to them in the end,” he continued, his eyes never leaving Corner where he stood waving a sugar quill around like an idiot, to the amusement of those around him. He didn’t notice the way Granger struggled to shake the hold he had on her, lost as he was to the fantasies in his minds eye. Sparks shot up into the sky bursting in a dazzling display of maroon and gold alternately, the cue for Corner and his mates to wander off to find the winning team. Draco allowed the disappointment at loosing the night’s games to wash away his contempt for now. 

He had toyed with the idea of letting Corner and his immature taunting go. He figured the boy would loose interest once he realized Draco wasn’t taking the bait, but he saw now that Corner was only just getting started. He saw himself in the way Corner’s eyes flashed in delight as his peers egged him on. He coveted the attention, where in years past he had moved unnoticed by Hogwarts’ masses. Draco found it amusing that he was being replaced, and by a Ravenclaw no less. His stony face twisted into a perverse mockery of a smile. He turned his gaze towards the bright flashes still lighting the sky, his smile melting away as he stared up, unseeing. 

Something must be done about Corner. Draco had never felt the pull of heroism in the past and didn’t pretend to feel it now, leaving such high notions to Potter and his ilk, but in this he felt ridding the school of the boy’s tentative clutches was his responsibility. He hadn’t stepped down from his position of local terror only to be replaced by some watered down version of himself with erroneous designs on taking control. No, he would put Corner in his place with such finality that no one would dare challenge him. 

“Looks like we lost,” Draco commented, turning his head so that he could see Granger, who had been eyeing him with a glint of worry and suspicion, but now gave the telling display above them her observation, her mouth quirking up in an impressive imitation of his own smirk. 

“Looks like you’ll need more than booze and cheating to beat Gryffindor,” she taunted him, her eyes cutting to look at him sideways. 

Draco rolled his eyes, trying this best to look unconcerned. “This was just a bit of drunken fun,” he said with an imperious sniff, softening his dismissive tone with a barely there smile. “We’ll see who has the last laugh once the season is under way.” 

Granger was having none of it, her smirk only growing in confidence as she turned toward him. “Wouldn’t the presence of alcohol only serve to prove that, no matter the conditions, Gryffindor is far superior to Slytherin?” 

He scowled at her but it held no real heat to it. “Whose to say Slytherin didn’t loose to lure Gryffindor into a sense of false security?” he retorted, a pale eyebrow lifting as his head tilted to the side. 

“Somehow I find it hard to believe Slytherin would loose on purpose just to prove that point,” she remarked doubtfully. “Admit it, Gryffindor won fair and square.” 

“I’ll admit to no such thing, Granger.” His denial was firm, his eyebrows lifting up and down to punctuate his words. 

She huffed out a laugh, her brown eyes rolling. “Have it your way then,” she said, her tone giving away just how delusional she thought him.

“PROFESSORS INBOUND!” someone yelled over the din of celebration going on around them, and the excited crowd that had gathered on the pitch burst into frenzied motion, the warning repeated over and over as students hurried to find their friends and flee the grounds. There was laughter and shouting, the mood an overall happy one.

“I suppose I should go find Blaise,” Draco said reluctantly, yelling to be heard over the noise around them. 

“Good luck with that,” Granger said and it was obvious she did not envy his task. She turned and jogged off into the crowd, but not before she flashed Draco a quick smile. Maybe he was reading into it, but he thought the glint in her eyes held something more. It hadn’t been flirty, per se, but it was definitely…more. 

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he smiled all the same. His smile held even when Blaise found him, staggering towards him with a broad, carefree grin, his broomstick dragging on the ground in a loose grip. Blaise slung an overtly friendly arm over Draco’s shoulder, his breath smelling so strongly of alcohol that Draco felt his head spin in sympathy for his friend. 

“Got to go, professors are coming,” he said, yanking Draco close with unnecessary force so that he could whisper very loudly in his ear. “Seen’em while we were flying.” He used the arm he had around Draco as leverage to drag him along. He paused then, his eyes searching Draco’s face. “Wass with you? Smiling like the cream who got the cat.” He laughed at his own skewed sentence, before realization cleared his expression. “Did you snog Granger?” he asked abruptly, too loudly for Draco’s taste. 

Draco glanced around, shushing him, though he was sure no one heard. “No, you sloshed idiot. I did not kiss Granger and you are decidedly too drunk to think straight.” 

He hooked a supporting arm around Blaise’s middle and dragged the boy towards the locker rooms where they could make a covert escape. Behind him he could hear the authoritative voice of Madam Hooch. He quickened his pace and somehow they managed to reach Hogwarts castle undetected. They hadn’t entered at the main entrance, Draco correctly assuming there would be a professor there waiting to dole out detentions. He’d led them to a courtyard instead. Blaise stumbled and tripped the whole way, dragging Draco down as he fell once in the wet grass. His robes were now damp and slightly muddy, yet still he kept his good mood. Blaise was no better once they were safely down in the dungeons. He had taken to loudly singing a pirate’s song his mother would have his ear for if she’d heard the distasteful lyrics now spewing loudly from her son’s mouth. Draco could only laugh at the boy as he stowed the memory away for later use. He knew Blaise would deny knowing such a low class song when he was in his right mind, but Draco would be all too happy to pull out his pensive and prove him wrong. 

Once Blaise was safety tucked away in his bed, Draco began the process of preparing for bed himself. He gathered his toiletries and headed for the shower. The water was scorching hot and just the ticket to wash away the stickiness of sweat and booze from his reddening skin. He tilted his head back, his eyes closed as the steady spray battered his chest, recalling Granger’s smile over and over again. Smiles were a wondrous thing, he thought as steam billowed up around him. They could be meaningless and perfunctory, or they could hold all the snark of a well-placed jab. Or, he thought as he stepped back and braced his hands against the tiled wall, his head falling forward so that the hot water poured over him, they could be as alluring as a soft touch to the arm, a hint at the possibility of things to come. 

Now freshly showered and dressed, Draco drew the curtains around his bed and slid into the soft, cool embrace of his sheets. He rested his head against his plush pillow, his hair, loose and clean, a pale halo in contrast to dark green. He thought about Blaise nearly causing Granger’s death, he thought about the easy way in which he and Granger talked as they walked together, he thought, of course, of her smile. 

+++ 

When he woke the next morning he was in far better condition than Blaise, who groaned and rolled around in distress in his bed. With a sleepy laugh, Draco dragged himself from the warm comfort of his sheets, tangling briefly with the curtains in his half-awake disorientation, and plodding his way to his armoire. He pulled the doors open and ignored the mirror’s remarks about the state of his hair as he rooted around for a pepper-up potion. Blaise looked blearily up at him as he approached, his agonized expression fading to relief once he spotted the vial in Draco’s hand. 

“You don’t deserve this,” Draco told him, his voice hoarse with sleep. 

“You’re a bloody saint,” Blaise praised him, taking the potion. His fingers struggled to loosen the stopper and Draco rolled his eyes, snatching the vial away from him to pop the cork loose before handing it back. He watched as Blaise tossed the potion back, a heavy sigh deflating his chest as thick steam billowed from his ears, nose and mouth, the potion working its magic. “Bloody saint,” Blaise whispered. 

“I should have left you to the dogs, let you explain to Madam Pomfrey why you have a raging hangover on a Sunday morning.” Draco said, determined to extract the pound of flesh he was due. “But being the friend that I am…” 

“I’ll owe you till the end of time,” Blaise hastily agreed, lifting a brown hand to press against his forehead where Draco knew he still felt his pulse pounding away. It took a few minutes for the pepper-up to extinguish the effects of drinking too much without proper hydration.

“Not _just_ for the potion,” Draco hinted savagely, his arms crossing over his chest as he glared down at the boy. 

Blaise’s hand slid over his face, and his eyes were wary when they met Draco’s. “Ah, yes, that.” 

“Yes, _that_!” Draco spat, and he leaned over to shove at Blaise’s shoulder, no doubt causing his head to spin nauseatingly. 

Blaise groaned and clutched at his stomach. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said miserably. 

“Not yet, you aren’t.” Draco turned away from him and headed towards his own bed, unbothered by Blaise’s condition, as he knew the boy would be right as rain in a few minutes. “But you will be.” 

+++

Gryffindor had won the grudge match! Hermione felt herself grinning despite her anger at Michael and her annoyance with Malfoy’s reaction to the situation. She always felt excited when Gryffindor won a Quidditch match, even if she didn’t follow the sport with the same passion as most of her friends. She was unable to resist ribbing the nearest Slytherin to her—Malfoy, of course—as they both watched the red and gold sparks burst in the air over their heads. Malfoy put on a cool, unaffected front when she teased him, claiming that the Slytherin team would have done much better if they’d really been trying to win, though she thought that there was still a hint of grudging respect in his eyes at Gryffindor’s win. Though maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. 

They bantered back and forth for a few minutes, both feeling the high of the cumulation of the matches and the excitement of the evening, and even Malfoy’s halfhearted scowl at her when Hermione proclaimed Gryffindor’s superiority on the pitch only made her want to laugh. Imagine her, Hermione Granger, laughing freely in the presence of Draco Malfoy’s scowl of annoyance! It was just another entry in a long list of surreal experiences that she’d been through that evening. 

“PROFESSORS INBOUND!” came a sudden shout from far away in the crowd, a warning echoed several times until the meaning became clear and students suddenly began to scatter to the four winds. Hermione glanced up sharply, feeling tension settle in her muscles. Old habits were hard to break and despite having come out tonight, she did not want to get caught in a crowd of rowdy, drunk students running around in the dark. Malfoy had looked up when the warning came, though he didn’t take off running like so many others. Hermione supposed he must be used to the chaos of breaking rules, according to Blaise Zabini parties like this were commonplace for those of Slytherin house. Malfoy probably already had an escape plan in mind. Too bad he couldn’t share it with her, since their Houses were so far apart in the castle. 

“I suppose I should go find Blaise,” Malfoy said eventually, pitching his voice to be heard over the yelling crowd, though looking like he’d rather leave his friend to his fate and worry instead about his own skin. His eyes were already scanning the milling crowds of students bolting for cover however, many of whom were shrieking or cursing or muttering about the inadvisability of being caught breaking so many school rules so early in the year. Hermione did not envy him this job, and was privately extremely glad that she wouldn’t have to be around the other Slytherin boy any more than she had to be. Malfoy could handle Zabini, so she was happy to stay far away from him. 

“Good luck with that,” she muttered, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice, though the mention of Malfoy’s friend brought to mind her earlier encounter with both boys. Though the memory of Blaise’s drunken taunts unnerved her, they weren’t what rose to the forefront of her mind just then. Recalling the slightly awkward way Malfoy had reacted after talking his friend out of harassing her, the way he’d teased her about her Chocolate Frog Card, the feeling of his hand on hers when he’d pressed her fingers onto the railing… A rush of strange feelings washed over Hermione. She hadn’t anticipated having a particularly good time tonight, what with her close friends all zipping around in the dark, and Lavender having run off, but she had in the end. And it was all thanks to Draco Malfoy. Would wonders ever cease? 

Malfoy was backing away, about to turn and hurry into the crowd, and Hermione found herself smiling genuinely at him. Malfoy had a sort of pained grin on his face—likely imagining his future wrangling a possibly-surly-but-definitely-sarcastic Zabini back to the dungeons—but his eyes widened a fraction at her smile. Feeling absurdly pleased to have surprised him in some way, Hermione turned and hurried off into the crowd, hoping to locate Harry before she tried to make her way back to the Castle; having the use of the Map and the invisibility cloak was sure to make sneaking back to the Tower a sight easier than most of the other students fleeing without aid. 

It didn’t take Hermione long to spot the red and gold Quidditch robes of the Gryffindor team milling through the throngs of students, as they were still loudly cheering their win despite the muted panic of possible detentions in the air. Her search was helped along by Ron’s tall form and his and Ginny’s vivid red hair. Harry wasn’t far behind them, already holding the Marauder’s Map in his hands. 

“Either someone tipped off the professors or the noise was too much,” Harry was muttering to Ron, trying to read the Map while also shouldering his broom and trying not to trip while running. “We could be in trouble if we’re not careful. Hooch is almost here, we’d better double back around the Greenhouses and avoid the main entrance. If all else fails we can hide out behind Hagrid’s until the coast is clear.” 

They didn’t have to wait out the crowd behind the groundskeeper’s cabin though, as a group of Hufflepuffs, clearly determined to shed their meek and mild image by drinking far too much of the “special punch” throughout the evening, stumbled into the middle of the field, one of them pausing to throw up so spectacularly that Hermione wandered if the boy had been given a puking pastel from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Madam Hooch paused to shout at them and Harry raced forward, leading Hermione, Ron, and Ginny in a straight shot to a side door of the Castle that turned out to lead into a corridor by the Muggle Studies classroom. 

They narrowly avoided Professor McGonagall, who was striding imperiously down the last few steps of the main staircase heading toward the front entrance, her tartan dressing gown flapping around her ankles and a look that said ‘expulsion was the kindest thing you could hope for if she caught you just then’ on her face, by skidding to a halt at the end of a corridor opening onto the Entrance Hall, and Ginny had to elbow Ron hard to make him be quiet—he’d been boasting about how they never got caught when breaking rules thanks to Harry’s map and McGonagall had glanced their direction for a second before she passed out of the Castle and into the night. 

Harry had draped the invisibility cloak over the four of them but it wasn’t big enough to cover them entirely, especially while they were tramping up the stairs doused in nervous excitement from their time at the forbidden match, giggling under their breath and hissing at each other to be quieter, which only set off the offender in a second set of half-drunk titters. It was impressive that the four of them made it back to the Tower without being headed off by Peeves or a prefect, let alone their head of house, but before Hermione knew it she was clambering through the portrait hole, and waving goodnight to Harry and Ron as she and Ginny hurried up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories, arm in arm, and giggling in a very undignified manner. 

“So,” Ginny asked, once they were both back in their room and sitting in the middle of Hermione’s bed. “Did you have fun? I’m sorry none of us could spend much time with you, but I hope you weren’t too bored. I know Lavender isn’t your best friend, but at least the pair of you could keep each other company.” 

Hermione removed her socks and tucked her bare feet under her, having shucked her shoes at the door to the room. She still felt flushed with the exhilaration of the evening, her cheeks were still rosy from the cool night air and and her hair was mussed from the wind and hiding under Harry’s cloak; but for once she didn’t mind being less than pristine in her appearance. “Lavender was rather preoccupied with her latest boyfriend,” Hermione said casually, her fingers loosening the red and gold tie at her throat. “So she wasn’t really around to commiserate with.” When she looked up again, her house tie in her hand, Ginny was looking at her. 

“So you spent the last two hours alone? Hermione, you should have let us know. We could have switched off so you wouldn’t be bored out of your mind!” 

“Well, it wasn’t so bad…” Hermione began, sliding off the the overstuffed mattress and walking to her armoire to hang up her uniform. She knew that the house elves would remove it in the night for cleaning but she still couldn’t bare to just toss her clothes in the corner like some of the girls did. Behind her, Hermione could practically feel the way Ginny’s ears pricked at this sentence. Not sure how her friend would react to the news that Hermione had spent the evening with Draco Malfoy instead of any of her ‘real friends’, she didn't turn back around until she was in the long white nightdress she wore in the fall and winter months. It was a little old-fashioned, with a laced-up front and wrist length sleeves, the hem slightly too long so that Hermione had to hold it up when she walked, but she loved it. Her grandmother had made it for her one year, back when she had thought Hermione would grow taller than 5 foot 4, though the fact that it was a little too big for her never bothered Hermione. 

Ginny’s sharp gaze hadn’t lessoned in the time it had taken Hermione to dress and brush out her curls, and she found her friend perched on the edge of Hermione’s bed, clearly waiting for more details. 

“Hermione Granger,” Ginny began before Hermione could say anything, and Hermione saw a smirk on the youngest Weasley’s pale face, her eyes blazing with sudden excitement. “You’ve told me many times you find Quidditch a bore, what happened tonight that made you of all people have such a good time?” 

“I, well, I just did is all,” Hermione muttered, not meeting Ginny’s eye as she climbed back onto her bed. 

“Did Ron sneak back to help with that good time?” Ginny inquired, her gaze beady though she looked a little like she wanted to laugh. 

A flush spread over Hermione’s cheeks at the mention of Ron. She hadn’t thought of him at all that night. What kind of girlfriend was she that she could spend a whole night with her boyfriend and best friend’s worst enemy and not think of him once? She’d been intending to tell Ginny that she had been talking with Draco Malfoy, and he was actually not that bad, nice even. Maybe even more than that. 

The flush on her face deepened. Where had that thought come from? Just because Malfoy had rescued her from one of his mate’s drunken shenanigans didn’t mean he felt anything particularly special toward her. 

“No, it wasn’t Ron,” she said quickly, trying not to over think things. Ginny looked a little confused at this abrupt denial and Hermione hurried on. “I just met another friend and we passed the time together. How was the game from the flyer’s point of view?” As she’d hoped, this question distracted Ginny, who spent the next ten minutes relating the matches the Gryffindors had played and the many stunts various players had attempted under guise of alcohol, that were both idiotic and rather dangerous. Ginny had abstained from drinking, knowing that it would interfere with her flying, though many of the other players hadn’t, and the last match of the evening had deteriorated halfway through, with Harry catching the Snitch right under the nose of the Slytherin Seeker. 

After Ginny had exhausted herself on the details of the tournament, Hermione bid her friend goodnight and pulled the hangings around her fourposter. Lavender still hadn’t returned, and, as she listened to Ginny bustle about getting ready for bed, Hermione wondered if she had been busted by one of the professors while snogging her new boy toy. Speaking of boys, the one she’d spent the evening with was confusing Hermione worse than ever. She couldn’t stop thinking of the way Malfoy seemed to let his guard down when he was with her. He wasn’t completely open, not exactly, but when they were alone together he seemed to relax more than when he was with his friends. There was something about the way Sylvia Melville seemed to unabashedly undress him with her eyes every time the pair were in the same room together, or the way Blaise Zabini seemed to put Malfoy on edge, as if, even though the pair were supposed to be classmates, housemates, and good friends, Draco always had to have his guard up around the other boy. Maybe it was just the whole Slytherin lifestyle thing that Malfoy had tried to explain to her. Maybe it was something else entirely. 

Whatever it was, Hermione knew that her feelings toward Draco Malfoy were shifting. She couldn’t say exactly what had changed between them in the past few weeks, but she knew that something was different. 

+++ 

Sunday morning passed uneventfully. Hermione slept late, skipping breakfast and spending the morning peacefully in the common room with Ginny, playing wizard chess and surprisingly not losing horribly every single time (though she suspected Ginny was letting her win occasionally to sooth her pride). Close to noon, Harry and Ron stumbled downstairs, and they weren’t alone in looking bedraggled. Hermione rolled her eyes, but resisted chiding her friends on the casualties of drinking too much, knowing that they were fighting regret even if they weren’t saying anything out loud. She did allow herself to say one thing though: 

“I’d suggest the pair of you, not to mention your team, Harry,” She gave a few other late risers a hard look as they emerged from the dormitories on either end of the common room, “find a pepper-up potion or something similar to take, so you don’t look like death warmed over when you run into a teacher today. You’re lucky it’s Sunday and you don’t have to go to class; otherwise there would be no hiding your late night.” 

“Oh give it a rest,” Ron grumbled, dropping onto the couch next to her and slumping onto Hermione’s shoulder. He still smelled like sweat and alcohol and Hermione shrugged out from under Ron’s weight with a scowl of annoyance. She’d showered, and done her hair and makeup—though this phrase was used much more loosely than perhaps someone like Lavender or Parvati, who spent at least an hour doing both each morning, might have otherwise done—before coming down to the common room that morning, and she couldn’t understand why some boys seemed to think bathing was optional, especially after a night like the last one. Of course there were other boys who took more pride in their appearance, she knew, such as a certain Slytherin she had been spending time with lately. 

“Moderation is the key to everything,” she retorted primly, ignoring Ginny’s giggle as Ron fell over on the couch and started snoring. “Oh honestly,” Hermione muttered, getting to her feet and frowning at Ron, who had started to drool. 

“Glad I’m not the one kissing that,” came Harry’s voice from an armchair opposite them, and Hermione glared at him. Though privately she was starting to wonder what she saw in Ron. He was a deeply loyal friend, but though he tried to be a good boyfriend, there were many times, like now, where Hermione felt like he didn’t treat her with the sort of respect she both expected and desired. It wasn’t really his fault, she supposed, it was just Ron’s personality. But that didn’t mean his actions weren’t grating on her nerves. Once she had this thought Hermione suddenly recalled the way she’d forgotten all about Ron the previous evening, and guilt washed over her. Maybe she wasn’t the perfect girlfriend either. Maybe their relationship wasn’t fair to either of them. 

Ginny had just announced that if Harry ever _was_ interested in ‘kissing that’, with a nod at her passed out brother, that he should let her know so that she could go hook up with Zacharias Smith, leaving Harry spluttering about not reading too much into offhand comments and Ginny looking like she was enjoying herself immensely. 

“Let’s go to lunch, Ginny.” Hermione said quickly, taking pity on Harry, though, looking more closely at him, noting that he looked scarcely better than Ron, what with the dark circles under his eyes. “Coming Harry?” 

“I feel like I just fought You-Know-Who,” Harry grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face and stifling a yawn. 

“You look it too,” Ginny replied, eyeing her boyfriend. “Do you want to borrow my concealer for the bags under your eyes?” she added sweetly. Hermione swallowed a giggle at the look of horror on Harry’s face. “Suit yourself,” Ginny said cooly, turning to head toward the portrait hole with Hermione beside her, though Hermione could see the sparkle of amusement teasing Harry had put in her friend’s eyes. “But don’t think you’re getting anywhere near this face until you, and my brother, for that matter, take a dip in the lake at the very least.” She blew Harry a kiss over her shoulder and followed Hermione out into the hall.

+++


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven 

Draco ran the tip of a finger along the edge of the cards in his hand, bending the corners forward so that when his finger moved on the cards slapped back into place. The movement was slow and deliberate, and Draco was happy to see that he was having the desired effect. Around him the other players shifted in their seats or eyed him narrowly. He let them stew for a moment longer before he lifted a hand and pushed two chips towards the pile in the middle of the small playing table, causing the other three players to gasp or scoff. 

“You’re bluffing,” said Miguel, a former sixth year who had tested into his seventh year before the start of term. He was scowling, his cards pressed against the opposite shoulder as he leaned forward to look at Draco. 

“He never bluffs,” grumbled Phillip, where he sat across from Miguel, his tone resigned. He was a long time player of cards with Blaise and Draco. He mostly continued for the information that could be gleaned from sitting in the company of two of the top Slytherins in the house. 

Miguel exhaled a harsh laugh. “All the more reason for him to be bluffing now.” 

Blaise chuckled darkly where he sat next to Draco. He had one elbow propped up on the arm of his chair, his head resting against the heel of the hand holding his cards. Everyone turned to look at him, except Draco, who smiled almost evilly over at Miguel. “I told you to play at your own risk, Munoz.” He gestured towards Draco. “He’s only won the last three times we’ve played.” He sighed despondently. “It’s almost no fun anymore.” 

Draco hummed and tilted his head to the left, his lips quirking ever so slightly as he looked at them all in turn. “Are we ever going to finish this game?” he drawled lethargically. 

“Fine, I’ll fold,” Miguel said, throwing down his hand with a flick of his wrist. His arms crossed loosely over his chest as he sat back and waited for the rest of them to make their move. 

“I suppose I will too,” Phillip sighed, and carefully laid his hand face up on the table. 

Blaise snickered. “I call Falsehood,” he said haughtily, naming the game and calling Draco’s bluff all in one go. He turned his gaze to Draco, who glared back. He flashed them all his deck, four Merlin’s in a row. 

Draco rolled his eyes and tossed out his cards, a collection of obscurely famous witches and wizards gracing the table to Miguel’s dismay. 

“Bloody cheat,” Munoz muttered, standing abruptly. 

“I’ll need my galleons by Monday evening,” Blaise called after him. He smiled easily and released the cards that were tugging insistently to get free and join their brethren where they gathered at the centre of the table in a neat stack. 

“I do so enjoy playing with you two,” Philip said cheerfully, despite being down more galleons than most people could spend in a month. “Always a bit of melodrama.” 

Blaise had taken to separating the chips by value, tallying his winnings for that afternoon. “Is it?” he asked with no real curiosity. “Just make sure I have your coins by Monday as well, hmm?” 

“Sure thing, Blaise.” Zabini twitched at the familiarity. “Shall I summon a tea?” Phillip brandished a pocket watch and flicked it open. “It’s about that time.” 

Draco stood and stretched widely. “Perfect day for it, eh?” he said as he looked around him. The three of them sat in a small, elevated courtyard overlooking green hills. It was an unseasonably mild day and they had decided to take advantage of it. A quick owl or two managed to round up two Slytherins good enough at Falsehood to provide a challenge. A lazy hour ambled by with the four gentlemen deeply engaged. Now, having lost, Draco did feel hunger starting to gnaw at him. “Make sure it’s a proper service, Phil; I feel fit to waste away.” 

“Of course,” Phil said cheerily, just as a house elf popped into existence beside him. 

“Peppy is being summoned!” squawked the petite house elf. Draco dared classify it as a female, if only by the slightly longer eyelashes and choice of pink pillowcase. 

Phill grimaced at to volume of Peppy’s voice but went on to place their order. 

Draco walked over to the stone banister, his finger picking absently at the crumbling edges as he leaned forward. He closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh air. _Is this what it is to live an untroubled life?_ In this moment he felt free of his burdens, enjoying the carefree moment for what it was. He didn’t mind that the wind picked his carefully styled hair loose, or that his collar flipped up against his neck, the starched fabric losing the battle in the face of the wind’s strength. His only concern was for the warmth of the sun against his pale, upturned face. 

When Draco returned to his seat, the three of them fell into a surprisingly untroubled conversation about classes and the previous night’s game. Blaise became very shifty here, but quickly settled when the topic moved on to their plans after graduating Hogwarts. Phil was surprised to learn that Draco was pretty decent at Charms and would pursue a job there instead of potions. Draco quickly explained that, though he was an excellent brewer as well, he thought it sage to avoid associating with career paths that could ultimately be allied with dark dealings. Phil had nodded, his expression sober, before admitting he was looking more into joining the Ministry. 

Phil hesitated, glancing quickly at the two of them before he continued. “I hear Arthur Weasley started a fledgling program studying the interactions between magic and electricity. Said he’d like definitive answers on why the two forces don’t mix well, amongst other studies.” He peeked over at Draco as if expecting to be knocked down for his silly ideas, but Malfoy only nodded with interest, gesturing for him to continue. With an uncertain excitement Phil spoke on, his conviction growing when he met no immediate opposition from Draco or Blaise. He and Draco tossed a few ideas back and forth, musing whether or not funnelling Earth’s natural energy through muggle-made materials changed the basic make up of the energy in such a way that it clashed with the magic magical folk employed. Phil introduced the concept of protons and neutrons, a conversation that bored Blaise to no end if his incessant yawning was anything to go by. 

They were interrupted by the arrival of their tea and Blaise dove in with relish, thankful for the interruption of such a dull topic. At half twelve the three of them disbanded, Phil having a study date to attend to. Draco headed for the dorms while Blaise slunk off to do whatever it was Blaise did on a Sunday afternoon. No doubt it had absolutely nothing to do with studying. He was acting strangely around Draco, as if he were waiting for something, probably for Draco to reveal whatever cruel punishment he’d thought up as repayment for his friend’s lousy behaviour last night. But Draco wanted Blaise to stew for a bit, let the weight of his actions sink into that thick skull of his. If delaying Zabini’s payback also set his friend on edge, well, that was an added bonus, wasn’t it? 

Upon reaching his room, Draco shucked his outer robes, tugging primly at the sleeves of the black button down he wore. He sat at his desk, pulled out a sheaf of parchment and inked a quill. He wrote out a quick note to Granger, asking her if she would like to meet some time that day, or maybe during the week to go over the charm. He summoned his owl and sent the short missive off. 

Now to deal with Corner. 

Draco had previously dashed the notion of a Wizard’s Duel with the boy, his anger getting the best of him upon hearing Corner gloating about besting Draco with a sneaky, cowardly attack. Draco had wanted to get back at the boy in an equally devious manner with none of the cowardice. But now, as he sat at his desk and really gave the concept some thought, a Wizard’s Duel would be just the thing. There would be set rules already in place governed by the same magic that held power over a Wizard’s Vow. Yes, there were ways to circumvent those rules but Draco being the Slytherin that he was, was well aware of this and would come prepared. He doubted Michael Corner would fight fair anyway. That just left Draco to decide how to issue the challenge without word getting ‘round to the professors and headmistress. He was sure they would put an end to the duel if they caught wind of it. Duelling your classmates was surely against the spirit of house unity, but if anyone deserved to be put on their arse by Draco Malfoy it was Corner. He was arrogant with no real reason to be so, other than the sheer audacity at picking Draco as a target he felt he could bully without consequence. 

It angered him anew that the Ravenclaw could be so bold. Draco no longer aspired to be the cruel aristocrat he’d aimed for in the past, but he did have a reputation that he’d earned rightfully. If Corner were smart he would have taken heed and chosen a far less worthy opponent, but the cards were in place and Corner had made his bed. Draco hadn’t realized he’d crushed the quill in his hand, the light brown feathers now smashed and jagged in his palm. He set the quill down, cursing softly to himself as he spelled away the ink that had somehow stained his wrist and sleeve. He pulled another piece of parchment toward him and stared at it blankly. The duel would definitely have to be in the evening after classes, maybe during dinner so that the professors would be occupied. It could happen tonight, even. The sooner the better as far as Draco was concerned. That would leave less time for news to spread, and Draco would have the upper hand. Corner wouldn’t have much time to prepare, yet his impending doom would certainly ruin his day. A slow smile crept across Draco’s face at the thought. 

He wrote out a time and place for the duel in his neat script and folded the parchment. He stood, tucking the parchment into the pocket of his grey slacks, then set off towards the library where Corner would presumably be holding court. It didn’t take long to find him, he’d chosen an area that was free of Madam Pince’s vigilant watch with enough space for his usual groupies to lounge around within listening distance. He sat perched upon a sturdy wooden table with a book open and forgotten on his lap. He was leaned back on his hands, but stood, the book falling with a thud to the floor, when he noticed Draco’s approach. His average features twisted into a smirk Draco found lacking in certitude, his own mouth slanting into the real thing, if only to show the lout how it was done. Like dutiful cronies, two of his mates stood to flank him. 

“Look what’s dragged itself out of the dungeon. I thought filth like you thrived on dark corners and shadows,” Corner sneered as Draco neared him, his mates snickering approvingly at his barb. 

Draco ignored the remark and pulled the parchment from his pocket, holding it out for Corner to take. As Draco expected, Corner jerked his head, signalling for one of the others to take it. The boy to his left, tall and gangly in a way that was too awkward to be comely, stepped forward and snatched the note from Draco, opening it and staring down at the words in obvious confusion. 

Draco only had eyes for Corner. “Come prepared, Corner. I’m challenging you to a Wizard’s Duel.” 

Around them, the students who had been pretending to mind their own business fell silent, giving themselves away. 

Corner scoffed and seized the paper from tall-and-gangly, his eyes quickly reading it over. “A Wizard’s Duel?” he said incredulously, his eyes round for just an instant with what Draco could only describe as fear. His smirk was back in place just as quickly, but it held even less sureness than before. “You can’t be serious.” He sounded as though he found Draco’s proposition ridiculous, almost comical. 

Draco pushed his hands into his pockets unhurriedly, his body relaxing in casual disregard to the threat Corner thought himself to be. “Oh I’m serious, Corner,” he said calmly, coolly. “For some strange reason you seem to think you’re some sort of menace to me.” He removed a hand from his pocket and studied his fingernails, clean and manicured to perfection. “I think it’s time I showed you that you hold all the danger of a particularly persistent Chizpurfle,” he finished, his tone hardening with each word he spoke, his eyes locking with Corner’s. 

Corner crumpled the note in his hand, his knuckles growing white with the force of his grip. “And if I refuse?” he challenged, his voice pitched low. 

“Then you’ll show yourself to be the coward you truly are,” Draco said with a shrug of his shoulder. 

With a growl, Corner stepped forward, his balled first cocked back as if to hit Draco, but he was stopped with a hand to chest by the boy to his right. Corner shook him off, his lip curling up as he bared his teeth. “Fine,” he grit out. “I’ll entertain this pointless duel. But,” and here he paused, probably for dramatic effect, but Draco was unmoved, “only under the condition that any spell is viable, short of Unforgivables.” He held out a hand for Draco to shake. 

“Deal.” Draco stepped into the handshake, gripping Corner’s hand so tight that the boy only barely hid his grimace. Corner moved as if to step away but Draco yanked him forward by the grip he had on the other boy, so that they were mere inches apart. His eyes narrowed as he met Corner’s gaze, unflinching. “Make sure you choose a worthy Second, as I’m going to wipe the floor with you, Corner,” he growled, before shoving the boy away. 

He left Corner and his cronies, the sound of the Ravenclaw’s curses music to his ears as he made his way towards the Library entrance. Madam Pince, summoned by the commotion of Corner’s tirade, barely spared Draco a glare as she passed him. Draco hoped she gave Corner detention until the end of term. She didn’t take the disturbance of peace in her domain lightly. Draco knew that first hand. He found himself whistling as he made his way out onto the grounds in search of Blaise. He would need a Second as well, and he knew just the Slytherin to hold that spot. 

Not that he intended on requiring Blaise to step in. 

+++

Sunday brunch was a lazy affair at Hogwarts, half the students were probably still sleeping, despite the late hour of the morning, and of the ones who’d ventured out of their Houses, probably less than half were actually in the Great Hall eating. As Hermione and Ginny passed the front doors on their way to the Hall, a group of third year Ravenclaws scurried past, heading outside. A burst of bright sunshine and warm air wafted in, drawing Hermione’s attention, and she turned to Ginny. “Why don’t we eat outside? We can go sit by the lake or something.” 

With Ginny’s agreement, the two girls piled cloth napkins with fruit and fresh scones covered in strawberry jam, balancing the lot while also carrying large mugs of tea in their other hands. It would, of course, have been far easier just to summon a house elf from the kitchens once they’d reached their chosen destination outside, but Hermione would never do so, and Ginny knew her friend far too well than to suggest it either. The girls passed by several other clusters of students on their walk toward the lake, some also eating pilfered breakfast foods, and others lazing about with textbooks, pretending to study though more likely nursing the after-effects of the previous night’s excitement. 

A group of boys sat around a table in a courtyard off to the far right of the rolling hills of Hogwarts’ grounds. Hermione could hear laughing and shouting, and the sounds of a good-natured argument, though the words were too faint for her to make out. The flash of green on the boys’ robes announced them as Slytherins, and she found herself scanning their faces even though the boys were too far away to really see any identifying features. 

“Who’re you looking at?” 

Hermione jerked back around, a guilty flush on her cheeks, though she knew she reasonably had nothing to feel guilty about. There were no laws against looking at students, even if they were Slytherins. “W-what?” she stammered. 

Ginny gave her a strange look. “You were staring so hard at those boys just now that you missed falling down the stairs by about an inch,” Ginny informed her, and Hermione looked down quickly, realizing that she and Ginny had indeed reached the wide stone steps that led them down the slope toward Hagrid’s cabin, on their path to the lake. Ginny had stopped walking now too, and was scanning the courtyard Hermione had been looking at. “Those look like Slytherins,” she commented, narrowing her eyes against the sunshine to see better. She turned back to Hermione. “Was one of them giving you trouble at the match last night? Merlin knows they were a handful in the air.” 

The honest truth here would be to say yes, one of them _had_ been giving her trouble last night, but if Hermione admitted that, then Ginny would demand the whole story, that is, to know how Hermione had gotten out of said trouble; and even if Hermione was brave enough to tell the truth to Ginny, and tell her that Draco Malfoy had forced one of his best mates to back down, she doubted Ginny would believe her. Or worse, she _would_ believe her, and then she’d want to know what Malfoy’s motive was for helping her. For surely he wouldn’t have done it out of the kindness of his shrivelled Slytherin heart. 

One of the boys was leaning back in his chair, the bored arrogance of his posture visible even from where Hermione stood, as was his dark skin. She was sure it was Blaise Zabini; and if that was Zabini than the blond lounging next to him was almost certainly Malfoy. The other two boys were unfamiliar aside from the fact that Hermione thought she might have seen them following Zabini around the castle like muggle office assistants. 

“You know Slytherins,” Hermione said in response to Ginny’s question, turning her attention back to the stairs. She was feeling much less relaxed now, having seen Malfoy and Blaise, and it irked her that the pair of them looked so at ease. She hadn’t paid much attention to Zabini over the years, he always seemed to be just sort of ‘there’, hovering in the background, just out of reach of trouble. This year, with ‘trouble’ supposed to be over with, the Slytherin boy was easing to the forefront of his House, his cool, calm, personality at odds with the cold, calculating look in his dark eyes. She shivered. 

“Yes, I do,” Ginny was saying, leading Hermione over to a sunny stretch of grass near a tree by the water’s edge. “You should have seen some of the plays they tried to get away with. Ron broke his nose on a bludger; luckily I was able to mend it, though really we should have come to you, your medi-spells are much better than mine. But Ron wanted to keep playing and…” 

Ginny talked on as they ate, but Hermione’s eyes kept glancing up the hill toward the raised courtyard were Malfoy was sitting with his friends. A loud crack had echoed over the grounds a minute ago, a house elf appearing with food. Hermione rolled her eyes. Naturally Slytherins would have no problem with such things, most of them likely had more than one elf at their homes anyway. And, Hermione reminded herself, most regular witches and wizards had no qualms against the use of elf labour either, it was just one of those things that was accepted in the wizarding world. 

The subject of Ron had caused her chest to tighten. She needed to talk to him, she just didn’t know what to say. Ginny had mentioned a late afternoon practice for the Gryffindor team that day, while they ate, and Hermione wondered if she should try and meet up with Ron before he went down to the pitch. 

“Ginny,” she began, breaking into the other girl’s speech in the middle of a story she’d been telling involving her catching the Quaffle by hanging bat-like off her broomstick by her knees. Ginny paused, looking irritated for a moment, then resigned, as if she had reminded herself that Quidditch wasn’t Hermione’s favourite topic of conversation. 

“Yes?”

Hermione fiddled with her empty napkin, folding it into neat squares, smaller and smaller, between her delicate fingers. Her hands were smudged with ink that never quite seemed to come off, no matter how much she scrubbed them, though her nails were neatly filed to graceful curved tips. She stared down at her fingers as she spoke. “I think I need to talk with Ron. About us.” 

The silence between her and Ginny stretched so long that Hermione was forced to abandon the napkin she now held squeezed between her white-knuckled fingers, and look up. Ginny was watching her with a neutral expression. 

“You want to break it off, don't you?” It was really more of a statement than a question, and Hermione responded as such. 

“No!” Ginny raised an a delicate red eyebrow at her and Hermione flushed, looking out over the lake. “Maybe,” she admitted. She sighed as she continued. “I don’t know. Ginny, I really like Ron, honest I do. But… I don’t know if there’s more to it than that. We got together in the middle of the War. Sometimes I feel like it was just convenience.” 

“You used him.” 

Hermione looked over sharply at the cool tone in Ginny’s voice. “No!” she protested at once, though her heart gave a thump that proclaimed this not entirely true. “I mean, I didn’t do it on purpose. I think we were both just looking for solace, and Harry was with you so…” 

“And you wanted to be with him?” Ginny asked. She was working to keep her face expressionless but Hermione could see something simmering in her eyes, and her lower lip trembled. 

“No!” Hermione cried again, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Ginny, no. I swear. I’ve only ever loved Harry as a friend. I’d never do that to you. Or Ron. Or Harry, for that matter. I promise.” 

This was coming out all wrong. What if she ended up alienating herself from everyone she was close to just by virtue of wanting to distance herself from one of them? 

“Ginny, I loved spending time with your brother. It’s just that I don’t think we’re meant to be together in that way. Not any more. Maybe one or the other of us felt that once, but I just…” She broke off, feeling something in her chest begin to splinter as she made the admission out loud for the first time. “I just don’t. Not any more. And it wouldn’t be fair to keep letting Ron think so.” A tear slipped down her cheek and Hermione lifted the napkin in her hand to swipe at it. Her fingers were trembling. 

“I’m glad you were honest with me about it, Hermione.” Ginny’s voice was quiet, and Hermione looked over at her. Ginny’s red hair blew softly around her shoulders in the gentle breeze. “This won’t affect our friendship will it?” 

Hermione felt her mouth pop open at Ginny’s words. 

“Because I couldn’t handle it if you stopped coming ‘round the Burrow, or hanging out with me at school. You’re my best friend. And if my git of a brother makes you stay away…” She broke off, and Hermione could see that Ginny was trying not to cry too. 

“We’ll always be friends, Ginny, I swear!” Hermione assured her quickly, pulling the other girl into a hug, and soon the pair of them were hugging and crying together, a pure juxtaposition in the warm afternoon sunshine. 

+++ 

Half an hour later Ginny had gone back to the Tower to wash up and change for practice, and Hermione found herself walking alone around the lake. Talking with Ginny had helped ease some of the stress she’d been feeling the past few weeks, though telling _Ginny_ she wanted to break things off with Ron was far easier than actually telling _Ron_. Hermione was terrified of losing her friendship with Ron. She was grateful that Ginny had promised not to hate her, but resolving to stay friends with a sibling’s Ex was easier than resolving to stay friends with your own.

The sound of flapping wings pulled Hermione’s attention out of her miserable thoughts, and she looked up to see an elegant Eagle owl soaring down toward her. The owl landed on a large flat rock near the lake’s edge, rustling its wings as it got settled, then sticking out a leg toward her. The owl looked vaguely familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place its owner. She untied a small roll of parchment and the owl took off immediately, launching itself back into the sky. Sitting on the smooth, sun-warmed expanse of rock it had just vacated, Hermione carefully unrolled the parchment.

 

_Granger,_

_Would you have time to spare today sometime, or this week, to continue work on the Charm? I’ll be in the library this afternoon if you want to come by._

_Malfoy_

 

The note was short and polite, and Hermione found herself smiling slightly as she read it again, taking in Malfoy’s neat penmanship. It was strange, she thought, the things she’d never noticed about the Slytherin boy until recently. The tightness in her chest eased a little as she thought of working on their project together. An assignment as complicated as this would normally stress out a person more, but for someone like Hermione Granger it relaxed her. Solving problems methodically with hard work and discussion was a balm to her soul. She felt her lips curve up a little as she thought back to the previous evening where Malfoy had annoyed her by appearing not to have heard her when she’d tried to subtly bring up this very topic. Maybe he’d been listening after all. Deciding to leave the subject of her talk with Ron for another a day, though promising herself to do it soon, she rolled up the letter from Malfoy and put it in her pocket, turning her steps toward the Owlery to send her reply. 

+++ 

Hermione closed her eyes and leaned against the cool stones lining the wall of the Charms corridor, trying to steady her beating heart. Ron, Dean, and Harry had just gone by, broomsticks on their shoulders, laughing and shoving each other in that good-natured rough and tumble manner boys seemed to have with each other. Hermione hadn’t meant to hide, and she felt humiliated that she had, but the sight of Ron had sent her heart to a frantic flutter of nerves and she found she suddenly couldn’t face him. She’d spun around upon seeing his red head bobbing down the hall between Dean and Harry, and pretended to have a suddenly urgent message for Professor Flitwick, dashing toward his classroom before Ron could do more than start to raise his hand to wave at her.

“What’s wrong with me?” she moaned to herself, slumping against the wall. It was three forty-five and she was on her way to the library to meet with Malfoy for an hour or so before supper, but she’d spent the past ten minutes cowering in an alcove, silently berating herself. 

“Nothing a shot can’t fix, I’m sure.” 

Hermione’s eyes snapped open and she straightened. The tall, imposing form of Blaise Zabini stood a few feet from her. He looked unruffled as usual, and regarded her with an imperious sort of amusement, as if she were nothing more than a toy he enjoyed playing with when bored. 

“Excuse me?” Hermione forced her own voice to come out cold and annoyed, which wasn’t that hard to do, considering her last interaction with the Slytherin boy the previous night. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t see how anxious he made her feel. Slipping her hand inside her robes, she fingered her wand, feeling reassured by its smooth touch against her fingers. 

“A shot,” Zabini said again, his voice languid, almost careless, as he relayed this information, taking a step closer to her, and smirking as Hermione moved away from him unconsciously, finding herself pressed back into the alcove she’d been hovering in before he’d arrived. He watched for a moment, cocking his head at her like a cat considering a bird. “Something my mother told me when she was on her third husband. A shot will solve pretty much any problem you have. It’s your choice whether its from a wand, a bottle, or your own smart mouth.” His eyes lingered on her face with these last words, and Hermione flushed. 

“Thanks for the advice,” she bit out, making to move past him. Zabini didn’t move back when she stepped forward, and Hermione felt unsettled by the faint smile on his lips as he regarded her, but nor did he move to stop her as she shoved her way past him. She hurried down the hallway, refusing to look over her shoulder to see if Blaise was following her. When she turned the corner into the hallway that ended in the library though, she couldn’t help herself, and was relieved to see that she was alone. Feeling oddly on edge from her encounter, she pulled open the heavy wooden library door and slipped inside. 

+++

Blaise wasn’t alone when Draco found him lounging at the edge of the lake furthest from the castle. Sylvia sat with her legs folded neatly beneath her, a tumbling pile of rocks to her right. She picked one up and hefted it, her eyes trained on the glistening lake surface. Draco watched as she pitched the flat rock with a practiced flick of her wrist and it bounced along the surface four times before sinking with a satisfying plonk to the bottom. Draco whistled his appreciation drawing the attention of the two Slytherins. Sylvia smiled, preening, though she didn’t pretend to hide the way her eyes took in Draco, starting at his loafers and ending so that their eyes locked, hers burning with a blatant heat. Draco smirked at her, but turned his gaze to Blaise who had picked himself up, waving a hand over himself so that what little debris clung to him shook themselves free. He didn’t seem to notice that the dirt billowed around Sylvia, causing her to rub at her eyes to clear them. Draco rolled his eyes at Blaise, but didn’t comment on the boy’s showy character, having realized after so many years in Blaise’s company that this sort of behaviour was second nature to him. 

“What?” Blaise said in lieu of a greeting, a dark eyebrow quirking. 

“What, what?” Draco asked breezily. 

Blaise only tilted his head. “You’ve got that look in your eye. What have you done this time?” 

“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” Draco remarked offhandedly. 

Blaise’s dark eyes lit up like a candle, his body straightening from its casual lean with excitement. “When’s the funeral? I presume the Corner boy is dead?”

Sylvia gasped, standing abruptly but Draco ignored her. 

“He’s not _dead_ ,” Draco said scornfully, although he knew Blaise was only teasing. “I’ve challenged him.” 

“Of course,” Blaise said, his eyes lifting briefly to the sky, exasperated. “I thought I’d rid you of that idea. A wizard’s duel gives Corner more respect than he deserves after what he did.” 

Draco shrugged unfazed by Blaise’s disapproval. “It’s what proper wizards do. Anything less and I’d be lowering myself to his level.” Draco turned to survey the lake. 

Blaise scoffed and crossed his arms. “Proper wizard.” He scoffed again. “Corner’s not even half the wizard you are.” Draco glanced over at him, wondering if he realized what he’d just said. It was compliment, and a blatant one at that. His surprise quickly soured as Blaise continued. “Literally, he’s not. He’s only a halfblood, and a poor one at that.” 

“None of that matters,” Draco said cooly, unwilling to give in to his anger at Zabini’s archaic views. “What matters is that I need a Second.” He looked pointedly at Blaise. 

Blaise opened his mouth to refute him but was stopped short once he realized what Draco had just proposed. His indignation fled, replaced with a charmed smile, crooked as it was. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said mildly, though his eyes told Draco he had already accepted. He was putting on airs as if he thought to use this to wrangle some sort of favour from Draco later, but Draco was having none of it. Blaise wanted him to beg, but Draco gave him a hard look and the Slytherin dropped his act. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he said, with a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I am your best choice.” 

“You’re my only choice.” Draco held out his hand and Blaise stepped forward to grip his forearm. They both looked at Sylvia, who nodded vigorously. 

“I witness this,” she said formally, her face solemn. 

A tingle of magic washed over the three of them, and it was done. 

+++

On his journey back towards the castle, Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, alerting him to the presence of someone’s attention. He looked around surreptitiously but saw he was alone, the closest students to him throwing some odd, flat, boldly coloured object between them off in the distance. Still the feeling persisted and he quickened his step. And then one of the school’s owls swooped down to land on the low branch of a tree nearby, hooting loudly and staring at him with an intense gaze. There was a letter attached to his leg, and the owl held said leg out to him as Draco neared. He had to laugh at himself, and his heart, which had kicked up a notch at the feeling of being hunted, calmed in his chest. 

“Stupid owl,” he murmured, as he retrieved the letter, receiving a sharp nip to the hand for his trouble. He scowled at the creature but turned his attention toward the missive. 

It was from Granger. He ignored the way his stomach fluttered upon reading the name scrawled at the bottom and tucked the paper away in his pocket. She had accepted his invitation to continue the work they had been doing on the project. He had no way of replying to her just then, but he decided that heading to the library was a smart idea. He would send an owl there. If she could meet with him today, he could wait for her in his usual spot, and do a bit of studying to pass the time. 

He only barely missed being bowled over by Potter, Thomas and the obnoxiously red-headed pillar that was Weasley, as they spilled out of the castle, laughing and shoving at each other as they ran off towards the pitch. He thought they hadn’t noticed him, but Weasley spared a moment to throw him a glare before Potter grabbed at his shoulder and pulled him along, the look _he_ gave Draco inscrutable. For a laugh, Draco raised a hand and waved. Potter’s eyebrows shot up and Draco chuckled to himself before he entered the castle. 

The library was particularly bare that afternoon, as it had been the previous time he had entered it. This time he found Madam Pince at her desk, sorting through a pile of miscellaneous papers. She glanced up at him over her glasses before greeting him. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” She set down the paper in her hands and gave him her full attention. “Did you have anything to do with the state of Mr. Corner earlier this morning?” she questioned him, her tone giving up the fact that she had already decided that he had. 

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Draco replied, his brows furrowing. 

She just looked at him, and he smiled, blinking expectantly. A reservation card sparkled into being on the desk between them. “Your usual is free. Do try to stay out of trouble.” And she returned to her work, dismissing him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he promised her, taking the card. 

The library possessed its usual amount of dark, dusty corners, but luckily was absent of any of the living variety, so Draco’s trip to his study area was untroubled. He aimed for the area Granger usual hung about in, thinking there was a small chance she’d be there, and was unsurprised to see his instincts had directed him true. She sat by herself with a book open in front of her and parchment that was quickly filling with notes in her neat handwriting. He could feel a small smile trying tug its way free of his usual austere expression, and he let it soften his features as he approached the opposite side of the table. 

Usually a student who found themselves tucked away in the library’s quiet stacks to study had the bleary expression of someone bored out of their mind, but when Granger looked up at Draco her eyes held the spark of excitement few ever felt for homework. Who was to say that she was even doing schoolwork? Granger didn’t become so smart simply by doing what was required of her. That was one of the things that made her so different. Granger didn’t simply experience life, she let life experience her. She took life by the throat and throttled it for all it was worth. Draco saw that they were similar in that way. At least, now they were. Before, Draco was content to do what he was told, to settle into the mold that his father had laid out for him. Now he struggled to pull himself free of that mold with every breath he took. 

“Granger,” he greeted her, his head dipping in acknowledgement. “Mind if I join you?” He rested his hands on the back of the chair he stood behind. 

“Hello Malfoy,” she said brightly, reaching over to pull a stack of books toward her, freeing up space for Draco’s things, though he had none at the moment. “Sit, please.” She surveyed the table and Draco thought she looked a bit distracted, as if she had something on her mind, but he didn’t remark on it as he pulled his chair out and sat down. “I was just doing a bit of reading on ritual magic,” she continued, lifting up the book in front of her so that Draco could read the title. 

“ _Gormalaith Gaunt: A Biography_.” Draco frowned. “A biography?” he said, looking up at her. 

She nodded, setting the book down. “The author went into great detail about some of the rituals Gormalaith performed while she was alive,” she told him, in a tone that rivalled that of a lecturing professor. “I’m starting to think the book’s title is a guise the author used to publish information about dark magic. It would no doubt be banned if the Ministry had any idea what this book was really about.”

“Instead it’s in your hands,” Draco said, shaking his head at her. She really could be a dangerous woman if she put her mind to it. Draco would have easily overlooked the book if he had come across it, but Granger, curious as ever, had found a hidden gem. “Ok,” he said slowly, “But _why_ are you looking up ritual magic? Planning on sacrificing someone to gain untold power?” he asked, only half joking. 

Granger smiled, but shook her head. “No, though I can think of a few people…” She trailed off and it took Draco a moment to realize that she was jesting. He chuckled and he couldn’t help it if it sounded a bit relieved. “No, actually ritual magic could be of some use to us. Typically rituals use dark magic to see the ritual through. There is a bit of a conversion aspect to rituals. They aren’t inherently bad, but the results are usually unpleasant. I was thinking if we could take some aspects of ritual magic and apply them to your charm, which, if we’re being honest, has ritualistic characteristics already, we might be well on our way to figuring this thing out.” 

Draco sat back, impressed, his eyebrows lifting and almost hidden in his loose fringe, his hair still picked free from his excursion outside that morning. He hadn’t bothered to fix it, enjoying the light-hearted aura the look afforded him. “Maybe you should do this project all on your own,” he teased, as he reached for the parchment beside her. Now that he knew it was related to the charm he was curious as to what she’d written down. “I’ll only slow you down.” 

“It may amount to nothing,” she said, dismissing his praise. She looked pleased all the same, Draco could tell, even though she tried to hide it. Whatever had been troubling her upon his arrival was all but forgotten now. 

“Gormalaith Gaunt,” Draco said, rolling the name around in his brain. “Dark Witch, I believe. I can’t imagine why Hogwarts Library would have such a text at hand.” The war was over, all the evil wizards having been rounded up and put away—well, most of them—but dark magic was still a very sore subject amongst wizarding kind, and rightfully so. In hopes of banishing the dark cloud that had hung over everything, the wizarding world had opted for overcompensation in all things happy and light. Diagon Ally had become a fanfare of bright lights and pastels, and smiling, laughing models advertising this product or that. Draco was loath to find anything resembling a respectable shade of Slytherin green these days. He’d taken to ordering his wardrobe via catalogue, and even then the pickings were slim. 

“I found this in the Restricted Section, of course,” Granger informed him, and Draco was sure he hadn’t imagined the air of superiority in her voice. She was well aware of how preciously guarded Madam Pince kept the Restricted Section. Draco could never gain access to it and had to resort to owling his mother for books that dealt with subjects harder than a history of magical fauna. It had been a pain of course, and it didn’t help that everyone had been suspicious of him. Gaining access to the restricted section was more trouble than it was worth, especially when Draco had such an extensive library at home. Waiting for the books to arrive, though, had been torture. Owls were expedient creatures, but they could only fly so fast. 

“I suppose there are perks to being in Madam Pince’s favour,” Draco conceded, though he didn’t believe there would ever be a day in which _he_ would make that list. 

He hadn’t meant to, but he must have come off as insulting, for Granger’s mouth pressed down into a frown, and she said, “If you would try being nice to her every now and again, maybe you would be in her favour too.” 

“That’ll be the day,” he muttered in a tone that told Granger not to hold her breath. “Anyway, I think you’re on to something good here,” he said truthfully, and it felt good to be able to say what he thought without having to worry that his kindness would be used against him. He tried it again. “And you’ve taken some good notes, too.” Yes, it definitely was a relief. Granger still looked at him as though she was waiting for an insult to follow, but only time would change that. “I admit I have been a bit distracted this week,” He didn’t say it was because he had been worried over her health, or if she would even speak to him again after he had inadvertently caused her spell in the hospital wing. “But I have done some thinking on the subject.” He opened his mouth to summon a house elf to retrieve his bag, but then thought better of it. He knew Granger was sympathetic towards house elves for whatever misguided reason, and didn’t want to start a row over his ‘abuse’ of them. 

He would never understand why she felt she had to fight for their independence. The bond of servitude between a wizard and a house elf dated back centuries. It had been a consensual agreement of protection in exchange for service. It was true that there were some wizards who abused their authority over the elves, but the house elves at Hogwarts wanted for nothing. They could cook and retrieve and mend to their little heart’s desire. 

He opted, instead, to summon his bag. It was a huge mistake, and Draco regretted it as soon as he saw the bag hurtling toward him from high above the stacks. He only had a moment to brace himself and stand before the bag crashed into his chest, dispelling the air from his lungs with a heavy ‘ _oof_ ’. 

“ _Merlin_ , Malfoy are you alright?” Granger had sprung from her chair and was by his side in a moment, her small hand a gentle weight on his shoulder as he collected himself. 

“I’m fine… I’m alright,” Draco wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. It became even more of a task once he realized how close they stood to each other. He stepped away from her worried touch and it helped to loosen his clenched throat, though there was nothing that could be done for the butterflies in his stomach. He sat heavily in his chair and Granger made her way back to her own, her eyes on him the whole way.

A moment of silence passed between them, with Draco rubbing at his sore chest. 

“You’re an idiot. That was an idiotic thing to do,” Granger scolded him, but her eyes still held concern so Draco didn’t take the comment to heart as he might have. Still he was surprised that she had spoken to him in such a way. 

“Sorry, I just thought,” he coughed, “House elves. You don’t like them.” He coughed again and drew in a deep breath. It seemed to help, so he did it again. 

“I like house elves,” Granger said, looking as though she were ready to stand and try to help him if he didn’t improve within the next few seconds. “It’s the way they’re treated that I find appalling.” 

Draco waved a hand and felt his breath come back to him, finally. “That’s what I meant,” he clarified, and hefted the offending bag onto the table. Now that he was sure he wouldn’t die, Draco felt the flush of embarrassment take hold, turning his pale face a rosy shade of pink. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re ok?” Granger asked, and she began worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She released it and spoke again. “We can postpone this for another time.” 

“N-no,” Draco said with a slight shake of his head. His breath caught in his throat again, but it had nothing to do with the collision, and everything to do with Granger’s lip, now rouge from the way her teeth had abused it. “I’m fine now. Let’s just...” He looked down and gestured at the table before them, mortified and unable to look her in the eye. He opened his bag and pulled out a fresh quill and parchment. 

“I suppose if you’re finished trying to off yourself….” Granger said slyly. Draco’s eyes shot up to meet hers, and the smile she gave him was chiding but gentle. 

His chuckle was raspy and he cleared his throat afterwards. “I believe I am,” he said, throwing his head back haughtily in an exaggerated imitation of his past persona.

+++


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve 

Hermione looked up at the sound of her name, and found Malfoy standing at the opposite end of the table at which she’d sequestered herself. He had an odd sort of look about his mouth, almost as if he were trying not to smile. She might have bristled at his usual smirk, maybe braced for a snarky comment on her over-industriousness, but Malfoy only asked politely if he might join her. She felt a little unsettled at this request, though not for any particular reason, and not because the boy himself unsettled her. Well, that wasn't strictly true. Malfoy did unsettle Hermione these days, but it wasn’t because she was afraid of him popping up when she was on her own, that was becoming a far too frequent occurrence for her to worry about; it was more so his changing attitude to her. And the fact that the smile playing about his lips was something that wasn’t quite friendly, but wasn’t quite sarcastic, more…fond? That was a strange word, and it didn't quite fit the look Malfoy was giving her either. And anyway, why was she overthinking the curve of Malfoy’s lips in the first place? 

She greeted him over-brightly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her strange reaction, and rearranged the towers of books around her to make room for Malfoy’s things. When he folded his tall form down onto the library chair, however, she noted he hadn’t brought his schoolbag with him. Briefly, she wondered if he’d left it over in ‘his’ study area. She had meant to go and check if he'd arrived a while ago, but had gotten caught up in the riveting story of Gormalaith Gaunt. The biography, if one could realistically call it that, had been a decent distraction to her romance troubles, but the subject of Ron, and just how Hermione was going to break his heart without destroying hers in the process, still hovered at the edge of her mind. 

She started to explain the correlation she’d found between ritualistic magic and conversion spells, and felt pleased at the unabashed look of wonder on Malfoy’s face. He was clearly impressed and unafraid to show it. This was another change in the boy across from her. A year, or even days maybe, ago, he would have rather died than admit that she’d come up with something clever. When he told her, teasingly, that she might as well be completing his Charm on her own, she was that brainy, she felt a stab of pride. It was still strange to her, Malfoy openly acknowledging her ideas as being good, even great, and having him say so made her heart give a little thump. 

“It may amount to nothing,” she said quickly, flushing under Malfoy’s comment, for she could tell he meant what he said on some level, though she also found that, oddly enough, she didn’t want him to hold onto the idea. She had started out resistant to Malfoy’s project, especially considering he’d all but bullied her into it. No, that wasn’t true either. Sure he’d sprung the idea on her without warning, and with his usual arrogance, but he hadn’t forced her into the partnership. So yes, she’d been unsure and hesitant at the beginning, but now she was looking forward to their time together. The Charm would a game-changer if they were able to figure it out properly, and Malfoy was proving to be as smart as she was. Maybe he’d always been so, she mused, though his messing around in all classes aside from Potions had hidden that fact from her. 

Of course, just as she was admitting to herself that she was warming up to him, Malfoy went and sniped, “I suppose there are perks to being in Madam Pince’s favour,” and Hermione felt her teacher-loving hackles rise. Ugh, it was just like Malfoy to move one step toward making her think he was a nice guy underneath it all, then two steps back with a comment like that. 

Surprisingly, Malfoy himself seemed to realized he’d miss-stepped with his comment, and hurried on to compliment her work. Hermione wasn’t fooled, and let it show with a frown at the boy across from her, but nor was she displeased. It was still novel to be praised sincerely by Draco Malfoy. It was a smooth move, of course, for him to show interest in something she’d been working so hard on though, and Hermione decided to let his earlier comment go. She was actually eager to share her theories on conversion and containment in ritualistic magiks with Malfoy. She had been mulling over an idea that if they took certain aspects of both and intertwined them, bound in place with the magic of the Charm, and then used both features to sort of ‘funnel’ the dark magic into a specific spot, they would be able force the energies therein to mix, coming out the other side ‘cleansed’. Or something like that. She was hoping that Malfoy would be able to help her figure out the more difficult details when she talked it over with him. 

Malfoy, meanwhile, had turned to reach for something beside him, then halted, his hand outstretched, as if he’d just realized whatever it was wasn’t there. She watched him curiously as he pulled out his wand and flicked it, then the pair of them waited in silence for something to happen. Something did happen then, and it zoomed through the air so fast that Hermione couldn’t see what it was, though Malfoy certainly must have, since he let out a grunt of pain and doubled over, nearly toppling out of his chair. Hermione leaped to her feet with a cry of surprise. 

“Merlin, Malfoy! Are you alright?” Had someone cursed him? Had he had a fit of some sort? Should she run and get Madam Pince? Madam Pomfrey? 

She shoved back her chair with a squeal of wooden legs and sprinted over to him, clutching at his shoulder and leaning over him to try and see what was wrong. Malfoy was hunched over in his chair, wheezing for breath much like she had on the greenhouse floor in Herbology last week, and Hermione was seized with an unfamiliar panic that Malfoy couldn’t breath. What would she do if he really couldn’t? Would she have to perform CPR? Mouth to mouth resuscitation? The thought of pressing her lips to Malfoy’s even in such a clinical and innocent manner sent a jolt through Hermione, and she was twice as relieved as she might otherwise have been, when he managed to gasp out that he was ‘fine’, though the word seemed relative in the current circumstances. 

Malfoy pushed to his feet, bringing his body abruptly within inches of Hermione’s own. She still clutched at his shoulder, half worried that he might fall over—though what she would do if he did, considering the vast difference in their sizes, she didn’t know—only now Hermione found her arm stretched full-length up the front of Malfoy’s body, bringing her a hair’s breadth from pressing flush against him. He was still catching his breath, but seemed to choke again as he looked down at her. He pulled back a moment later, stepping away from where she stood, and Hermione let her hand fall away. 

Worry over what had caused Malfoy’s fit almost clouded out the sting of his pulling away. Almost. And why should she feel hurt anyway, Hermione chided herself sternly, this was Malfoy, of course he’d react like that being so close to her. 

It stung nonetheless. 

As Malfoy slumped back into his chair, Hermione made her way back to her own, eying him. She could see now that the cause of his distress had been a heavy book bag to the stomach, and was visited briefly by the mean urge to laugh at him. It was rare that Draco Malfoy was caught in such a ridiculous position—possibly back in fourth year when he’d been turned into a ferret by Professor Moody—but swallowed the notion back nearly immediately, feeling ashamed. 

“That was an idiotic thing to do,” she chided him instead, and was surprised at the faint look of exasperation on the Slytherin boy’s face, a look that said he couldn’t win for trying. 

“House elves,” he coughed out, massaging his stomach, and drawing Hermione’s eyes down to the fact that, despite his dress shirt, and Hogwarts robes—which had fallen open in the disarray—Malfoy’s stomach was rather taunt. Must be all that Quidditch, she mused privately, then flushed, pulling her mind back to what Malfoy was saying and feeling guilty at the same time that she was having any thoughts at all about Quidditch players’ bodies that were not Ron’s. It seemed that Malfoy had summoned his bag instead of calling a house elf to bring it to him because—and she felt another strange jolt at the uncommon thoughtfulness of the action—he’d remembered that she didn’t like to abuse the use of elves at school, even if she now knew that the house elves at Hogwarts were mostly happy to be there (perhaps Winky aside). Ron would never have done so. It wasn’t that he was thoughtless, or didn’t care about her feelings, but more so that he would have been exasperated at her stubborn refusal to do things as they’d always been done. Something, she thought silently, she would have expected from Malfoy too, up until recently. 

“Are you sure you’re ok?” she said at last, nibbling on her bottom lip and frowning at Malfoy as he coughed again, dumping his bag on the table. He glanced over at her, flushed from his ordeal, and his eyes widened slightly before he turned abruptly away, and began rummaging through his bag with undue concentration. Hermione wondered if Malfoy’s pride had been injured such that he just wanted to leave but couldn’t think of a polite way to extricate himself. When she offered him the out though, he waved her off, pulling out parchment and quill and readying himself to work. 

+++ 

Malfoy was suitably impressed with her observations on ritual magic, and together they made notes and scribbled diagrams on the parchment Malfoy had shared with Hermione the previous week. The concept seemed plausible, but the binding ingredient was an issue that Hermione couldn’t seem to work out. She found herself distracted by the way Malfoy bent over his parchment, a quill held in one hand as he scrawled neat rows of notes. He held the delicate instrument firmly, but gently enough that the feather wouldn’t snap in his grip, and Hermione had to shake herself out of a trance after several long seconds of watching Malfoy’s hand move across the page. 

What was with her today? She’d never been this observant about a person, let alone when that person was Draco Malfoy, so why was her brain so obsessed with all aspects of his body suddenly? Shoving _that_ thought to the far recesses of her mind, Hermione was almost grateful when her stomach gave a not so discreet rumble, at almost the exact same moment as the library clock chimed five. She tossed down her quill and stretched her arms up over her head, arching her back to work out the kinks acquired from bending over books and parchment for so long. Malfoy looked over at her, and she thought his eyes widened slightly. Feeling oddly self-conscious, she quickly lowered her arms.

“Throwing in the towel already, Granger?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, though he’d looked away almost as soon as he met her eye. The comment was offhand, and Hermione knew he was only needling her because her work ethic was legendary throughout Hogwarts, but she wasn’t to be swayed. 

“Even the greatest among us need to eat at some point, Malfoy,” she returned drily, watching as Malfoy jotted down a last sentence. “If I faint from hunger I’m hardly of any use to you.” Her comment had been meant in jest but Malfoy turned to look at her sharply, in the middle of taking out his wand and tapping their notes so they rolled up neatly and sealed themselves. 

“I’m _not_ using you, Granger,” he said quickly, and his voice was so startlingly serious that Hermione looked back at him with wide eyes. He was staring so hard at her that her heart beat a little faster at the intensity in his expression. She blinked at him in surprise. 

“I—” she began, but Malfoy spoke over her, sounding half annoyed and half earnest. 

“Because if that’s how you feel about this project you can leave now. I won’t force you to stay if there’s something else you’d rather be putting your efforts into.” 

She stared at him, startled at the over-reaction her teasing had caused. “I— What are you talking about?” she finally managed, frowning. 

Malfoy looked frustrated with himself, or with her, or maybe with the situation. It seemed like he wanted to say something more, but then he turned to put the scrolls containing their project into his bag and the moment was lost. 

Hermione slowly started to gather her own things together, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He’d been all over the place this afternoon. Of course, so had she, though she hoped her wandering mind hadn’t been as obvious. At least she hadn’t jumped down Malfoy’s throat for an innocent remark. 

“It’s suppertime,” she said after a minute of awkward silence, wondering where the polite writer of the invitation to meet him here was now. Malfoy stood, then stepped back so that she could pass. She took a hesitant step past him, turning to look over her shoulder; he was watching her silently. She flushed, though from anger or hurt she wasn’t sure. Mostly, Hermione just felt very confused. “Well, see you,” she muttered at last, then walked out of the study alcove, leaving Malfoy behind. 

+++ 

As she headed toward the Great Hall for supper, Hermione pondered the ridiculous mystery that was boys in general and Ron and Malfoy in specific. They were so very different from each other, yet so similar in other aspects. Both seemed to blow up at the stupidest things, yet both also seemed care about her. She nearly stopped walking as that last thought drifted through her mind. Malfoy? Care? About her? Well, he’d cared enough not to sit back and watch as Zabini nearly yanked her off the top of the Quidditch stands. But that wasn’t it, was it? She had to admit to herself that there’d been a lot of little things recently that added up to Malfoy’s changing attitude toward her: he'd walked her back to the Tower the other night, he’d returned her bag from the carriage, he’d run toward her in the library when she’d had that fit. Sure, he’d chased most of these events with some form of anger or sarcasm, but he'd still done them. 

Malfoy’d come back to school changed, Hermione was starting to see that now. And, if she was honest with herself, her feelings were starting to change toward him too. Otherwise why would she feel hurt over stupid things like Malfoy’s comment in the library just now? It wasn't like he hadn’t been horrifically rude to her in the past, or even that he’d really been so now, it was just that now… now she was starting to respect him as person, maybe even as a friend, and so the hurt that she felt was a strange and new kind, and for that reason it was all the more painful. 

Hermione had thought life would be easier with Voldemort defeated. She hadn’t expected uprisings at school—though she knew it was naive to think so—or drama in other areas of her life. She’d thought that she would return to school, complete her studies, and follow the course her life was naturally set upon. That course had included Ron, up until a few weeks ago. And in her most secret of hearts, Hermione knew the reason behind the change.

+++

Draco sat up at the sound of the clocking tolling away the hour. Across from him, Granger lifted her arms, the movement calling his attention in time to catch the way her body curved attractively as she stretched. Draco was sure she hadn’t meant for the simple act to be anything but utilitarian, and he wouldn’t have thought anything of it had his opinion of her not suddenly changed, but… Her eyes met his and he looked away, noting the way her arms dropped as if to hide herself. “Ready to throw in the towel already, Granger?” he teased, an eyebrow quirking up. He hoped his taunt would distract her from thinking too long on the way he had been looking at her just then. Though he figured if she hadn’t already run screaming to her boyfriend—if you could call a weasel a boyfriend—at the notion that Draco wanted to partner with her on anything, she probably wouldn’t at this point. But he was sure if she caught him checking her out she would do so without hesitation. He felt himself relax as finished off his sentence, but something seized in his chest as Granger responded to his words, and he looked up at her, his mouth tight. 

“I’m not using you, Granger,” he told her with a severity that he felt in every inch of his body. Is this what she thought this was? That he was here to pick her brain and toss her aside once he was done with her? The thought was surprisingly hurtful, and he felt frustration blossom within him as offered her an out. He wouldn’t force her to stay if she wanted to leave. This was their final year, and if she felt that Draco was holding her back when she could be studying for her exams, well, he wouldn’t allow that to happen. Couldn’t she see that he was making an effort for something more than just study partners? Merlin help him, but Draco actually wanted to be her friend. 

“I—what are you talking about?” Granger looked confused and the frown pulling down the soft corners of her lips told Draco that she didn’t understand where his annoyance had come from. 

Draco paused, his hands clenching where they rested in his lap. He felt the gentle snap of yet another quill ruined that day, which only worked to further annoy him. Draco wished he could be straightforward with her, tell her that after their study session together that first night, he saw her as someone he could actually enjoy spending his time with outside of the musty, dark library. But that wasn’t something he could admit to her without looking weak. It was true he was growing fond of her but he couldn’t, he just…couldn’t. Instead he began to pack up, gathering the scatter scrolls in his hands and placing them neatly in his bag. Granger followed his lead, moving slowly as if he were one of Hagrid’s unpredictable creatures that she didn’t want to set off. She wasn’t looking at him but he could still feel the weight of her attention. He felt like a fool, letting his emotions get the best of him. It was clear they weren’t on the same page, and for some reason that hurt Draco. He wanted so badly for this to work out, but the wall between them felt insurmountable. 

“It’s suppertime,” she said into the silence, which had reigned heavy between them. He stood, stepping back to give her room as she moved past him. She looked back at Draco and he watched her, silent, a small flame of hope flickering to life that she would say something, anything, to put the evening back to rights. But all she said was, “Well, see you.” And continued on. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but it looked as though her face had reddened just before she turned away. 

He wanted to go after her, grab her hand, apologize, but his feet wouldn’t move, and his throat was shut tight against the words clambering around in his chest. He watched her leave with a regret he couldn’t tamp down. It was a familiar sentiment, regret, and one he grew tired of. Lucius had taught him many things, one of which was that looking weak was unacceptable, and for the poor and powerless. It was this lesson that had stayed his feet as Granger left him. His silence was a poignant example of just how hard it would be to shuck his father’s damaging lessons. He sighed heavily and sat with a grace he did not feel in his recently vacated chair. He would give Granger a few minutes head start before he set out for his dorms to prepare for the duel between he and Corner. He couldn’t imagine bumping into her so soon after what had just happened. He would ignore her, as he had done many times since the start of term, if he saw her again, ashamed and defensive. Draco knew that would only work to further irritate the situation and probably enrage Granger so that she actually wouldn’t speak to him again, as he’d feared she wouldn’t after the incident in Herbology. 

When Draco felt a sufficient amount of time had passed, he gathered his bag and left the library, relieved to see that it was empty of intelligent, curly-headed Gryffindors. He stopped by the Great Hall where the air was full of the fragrant scents of dinner. Draco’s stomach rumbled in longing, but he would have a quick snack before the duel to give himself the energy his body craved. He stood in the doorway, waiting for Blaise’s attention, which he didn’t get until the boy beside him, Phil, tapped his shoulder and gestured in Draco’s direction. Blaise dipped his head and stood, heading his way. Draco’s eyes scanned the Great Hall, unabashedly seeking out Granger, and when he saw her nestle between Weasley and the she-weasel, he scowled. As he watched, Ron leaned over and whispered in her ear. She looked at him, bumping him with her shoulder and he leaned away, laughing heartily. Draco turned away, his face blanking as he made his way down to his dorm. Blaise caught up with him as he entered their rooms, looking bored and mischievous all at once. 

“Ready to reduce that annoying Ravenclaw to ashes?” Blaise asked smoothly as he reached past Draco into his armoire, and brought out a black long sleeve button-down and matching pair of slacks. Both, Blaise knew, were designed for duelling. The material was deceptively soft, yet would withstand minor blade damage and was spelled to repel any hexes, and jinxes of the first year variety. Corner had stupidly not mentioned the disuse of such items, and Draco smirked to himself as he took the offered clothes. Though that would probably mean that Corner had a few of the same items himself, and planned to use them. With that thought Draco’s smirk dropped. Still, he couldn’t imagine that Corner would be so familiar with a wizard’s duel as to know about their existence. Draco’s duelling garb was form fitting, but was made of a material that would flex and move with him. It was guaranteed to wick away sweat and cool him so that he wouldn’t be uncomfortable, leaving him to focus on the more important aspects of the duel. The way the form fitting fabric showed off his slim, toned body only aided Draco’s confidence. 

“His mother won’t be happy when she realizes a ‘visit’ from her son means she’ll be receiving him as dust in a box,” Draco retorted as he met Blaise’s eyes. 

Blaise chuckled. “Go on, get dressed. We’ll be late.” 

“Let him wait,” Draco sneered, but hurried to dress nonetheless.

++++ 

Isla had graciously agreed to be their referee for the duel that evening. Being a Hufflepuff, Draco had immediately dismissed her when Blaise had suggested she be the one to oversee the duel, but Blaise had quickly reminded Draco that it was Isla who had arranged the covert Quidditch competition the previous night. There was more to Isla than the bumbling, righteousness that was characteristic of a Hufflepuff. Her agreeance to referee only further proved Blaise’s point. 

Draco supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised to see that there was already a small crowd gathered in the abandoned classroom Draco had instructed Corner to meet him in. Mostly there were Ravenclaws, but a few Slytherins hung about as well, probably no thanks to Blaise. Still more students filed in as Draco, Blaise, Isla, Corner and Tall-And-Gangly stood in the centre of the room, but Draco ignored them, focusing instead on Isla as she stepped forward. 

“Malfoy, Corner, please step forward,” Isla said, her voice carrying and echoing around the rather large room. She said the few formal words required of her if the duel was to be official, making sure Corner agreed to the duel and the terms, and did the same for his and Draco’s Second. Draco only had eyes for Corner, who scowled across from him. For his part, Draco only smirked, made sure by his confidence that the duel would be a quick and easy one. 

“Bow to your opponent,” Isla instructed and the two of them raised their wands. Corner dutifully bent at the waist in a slow, sarcastic bow. Draco only dipped his head, which would suffice for the magic that resided over the duel. Corner’s scowl deepened but he didn’t protest. 

Isla took several steps backward, along with Blaise and Tall-And-Gangly—Richard was his name, Draco had discovered when Isla had introduced him earlier. Their Seconds didn’t move as far away as Isla had; they had to be ready to step in if their partners had need of them. As if there had been a cue that only the two of them heard, Draco and Corner turned and took six steps out before facing each other. Corner fell into the standard duelling pose, his wand arm out and aimed at Draco’s chest, legs wide for balance. Draco chose a less exaggerated stance; his feet only shoulder width apart, his wand arm cocked back. The pose was a lazy one, meant to lure his opponent into a sense of false security. 

“One,” Isla’s voice cut through the low chatter to quiet the room. “Two,” there was a heavy pause, in which no one seemed even to breath. “Three!” 

Draco’s feet moved, light and careful, and, to his surprise, Corner copied him, deciding not to fire off a spell immediately as Draco assumed, hoped, he would. They circled each other, eyes intent, and wands level. Draco waited Corner out and it didn’t take long for the Ravenclaw to make his move. Corner stepped forward, his arm arcing over his head to deliver a blaze of electric white magic at Draco, who slid his right foot backward, his back vulnerable for an instant as he whirled to avoid Corner’s spell. It shot past Draco with a buzz, and Draco used his momentum to swing his arm out, a spell blasting from the tip of his wand. Corner, prepared, slashed at the oncoming light, sending it bouncing off his protective shield. Just as quick he fired off another spell and Draco ducked, falling to a knee as he answered the incantation with one of his own. This one hit, but it was weak, filtered through Corner’s disintegrating protective screen. Still, Corner’s legs grew weak as a result of Draco’s Jelly Legs jinx, which told Draco that Corner had not worn clothes that would have been resistant to such jinxes. The jinx was an insult, Draco’s message being that he found Corner so little of a threat that Draco believed he could best the boy by using the least amount of effort.

Corner’s legs wobbled comically and Draco chuckled, thinking he would have a few moments before Corner recuperated, but Corner was fast, shooting off a spell at Draco, twisting his wrist just before the magic left him so that magic curved to follow Draco’s path and strike his left arm. 

Draco winced, gritting his teeth against the pain that skittered up and down his arm, deadening it with a sensation that felt not unlike the sensation you got when you slept on it wrong. Draco scowled then, not liking that Corner had got him, and took a step forward to cast, but he stopped short, noticing the way Corner’s eyes lit up at the action. Draco stumbled to the left, narrowly avoiding the boy’s next spell. Draco grunted as he planted his feet, his wand arm reaching up and over his left shoulder before coming down with the force of his conjuration, red and glinting with malicious intent. Corner swept his wand in front of him, cancelling the jelly legs jinx and falling to his knees, rolling to his right to avoid Draco’s spell. Once he regained his knees, he aimed, an electric blue flare leaving the end of his wand. Draco raised a shield with little effort, angling it so that the spell bounced off and headed back at Corner. But Corner was no longer on the ground. He was standing and moving, so that the spell missed and struck the ground, blackening it. 

Around them came an exited applause, and a few cheers. Draco paid them no mind, the noise of their clapping and whooping blocked out as he concentrated on Corner’s movements. 

“Slippery little snake,” Corner taunted him, his smile twisted and evil. “Thought I would take a beating lying down, did you? Little did you know I’ve been duelling since before it was legal for me to hold a wand.” He laughed, and it bounced off the walls and echoed around Draco with ominous joy. Corner was breathing heavily, but looked ready to go the distance. 

“Won’t do you much good here, Corner,” Draco sneered back at him, falling into the easy back and forth that was common amongst Slytherins as they circled each other again. “You’ll be lying down and taking it—” And just as Draco had expected, Corner cast, interrupting him, the Ravenclaw’s wand weaving a complicated pattern in the air before the spell shot from his wand and whizzed over Draco’s head—he’d crouched in an undignified manner to avoid being hit—and sizzled out. Draco grunted, flicked his wand up and down, cutting out his own incantation and the magic shot forward with a crack, hitting Corner in the chest and blasting him backwards. Draco, prepared for such a result, stepped forward and slashed his wand violently, magic arching from his wand and slicing an invisible path into Corner’s body, so that the boy writhed with pain where he lay on the ground. His body jerking with the steady shocks of his agony, Corner sat up and found his footing, much to Draco’s surprise. He knew that spell, knew how much it hurt. It was no _Cruciatus_ , but it was almost as potent, working to trigger the brain’s pain receptors into thinking the body was being shocked with electricity. Despite the involuntary twitching and shaking of his body, Corner took advantage of Draco’s shock and launched a spell that struck true. Draco’s vision blurred, then blackened into darkness. He blinked then blinked again but his vision had deserted him. 

Corner laughed, and Draco honed in on the sound, breathing in to steady his nerves. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Corner’s feet as they dragged across the floor, still circling. Draco moved as well, his wand aimed at where he hoped Corner was. Around him, the students who had come to witness the duel suddenly became a distraction. The sound of robes sliding against the stone floor was a quiet susurration all around him. The whispers that he had previous blocked out, became a swell of sound, confusing him as he tried to hone in on Corner’s location. It stood to reason that he would be exactly across from Draco, they were both still moving to the right, neither stopping lest they get to close to the other. His heart pounding in his chest, Draco suddenly became worried for the first time since he’d issued his challenge. Corner was turning out to be more of a problem than he had initially anticipated. Draco thought that he would challenge Corner, defeat him with a humiliating swiftness, and be on his way. But that was not to be. Corner had managed to blind Draco, stealing away one of his vital senses with a spell that Draco was loath to admit he did not know, deaden his arm, and gain the upper hand. Well, there was something Draco could do for the dead arm, but first he would need to protect himself. 

He heard an intake of breath, Corner’s, as he swirled his wand with rapid speed, a shielding falling into place around him. He felt a spell bounce off of his magic not a second later, Corner’s response to Draco’s waving wand, and the students around them gasped, probably thinking Draco done for, only to sigh when they saw Corner’s spell was no good. Under the protection of the glowing bubble surrounding him, Draco felt safe enough to cancel the spell that had rendered his left arm useless. He kept his feet moving, he could hear Corner doing the same, as he worked his arm. 

“Slippery snake, blind as a bat,” Corner chanted, his voice low with menace. “Can’t see a thing, how will he react?” 

Draco didn’t reply, focusing instead on where Corner’s voice was coming from. If it were Draco in Corner’s position, he would have finished this duel off quickly, taking advantage of his opponent’s loss of vision with fast, savage spell work, but Corner seemed intent on gloating for his audience. That gave Draco time to cast again, a subtle spell that lit up the room in his mind’s eye. The room was a soft blue matrix of light, Hogwarts Castle drowned in protective magic as it was, with points of denser light scattered around its edges. These were the students, each body containing an interesting grid of magic that Draco would have to remember to study later when he had time. There was another, this one moving at the same pace as Draco, across from him. This one was Corner. 

Draco smiled and he heard what sounded like a growl come from where he assumed Corner to be. It matched with the moving grid of magic that was in his mind’s eye. This new spell was a strain on his magic, he could feel the way it drained him in order to work, which meant Draco would have to end this quick if he wanted to win. Draco faltered in his step, and the grid that was Corner flared briefly before it dimmed and a bright bulb of magic shot towards Draco. Eyes still closed, Draco stepped to his left, his body turning so that the magic hissed past him. He flicked his wand and aimed just shy of Corner, who darted closer to Draco with light, quick steps. In response, Draco jerked his wand so that it aimed straight at his opponent, and with a gasp from the onlookers, the spell he sent forth hit, bringing Corner to his knees. Wasting no time, Draco ran forward and fired off three quick spells: one to bind, one to silence him, and one to disarm him. Caught off guard by Draco’s accuracy, Corner was helpless against the onslaught. His wand flew from his grip and Draco’s vision returned to him in blotches before it restored, though blurry. When Draco stopped, he was standing over Corner, his wand aimed at the boy’s chest. 

Technically the duel was won once Draco had disarmed Corner, but Draco was angered by his near loss, and felt the pettiness of his anger rise within him. With a whispered string of words he cast again, and before him Corner’s body began to morph. No one moved as Corner’s body seemed to melt and condense, and when the transformation was done, silence reigned. 

That was, until Corner popped off the ground and gave a loud squawk of disapproval. 

“He’s a chicken!” a voice exclaimed from the outskirts of the room. “A bloody chicken!” 

There was a chorus of laughter, yelling and gasps following the statement and Draco stepped back as Isla ran forward, her face pulled down with concern. “Is this reversible?” she asked prudently as she bent down to scoop up Corner, who struggled to get free, sharp talons drawing blood as they dug into Isla’s arm 

“Of course,” Draco said snidely, a satisfied smirk firmly in place. “But I’m sure he feels right at home in this form.” 

Isla dropped Corner, inspecting her arm of the damage done to her as Corner took off towards Richard. Richard cast spell after spell but Draco knew no one would be able to reverse the spell but he, so he watched with obvious amusement as Corner ran in circles, wings flapping as he crowed in distress. 

“Here, let me.” Blaise materialized to Draco’s right and brushed past him to take Isla’s arm, his wand waving over the wound as he cast, healing her. 

“Thank you,” Isla said softly as she watched the scratch knit itself back together. “He deserves it,” she muttered, and looked over at the spectacle that was Corner and Richard. Blaise released her arm, and Isla turned to face the students huddled by the door. “Draco Malfoy has won this Wizards Duel over Michael Corner,” she said officially, and to Draco’s surprise, there were a few scattered cheers. 

Traditionally the two opponents shook hands afterwards, that was assuming the duel was not to the death. But Draco thought, under the circumstances, that part of the tradition could be overlooked, as Corner had no hands to shake. 

Draco’s arm still ached something fierce and his vision, though cleared, was blurry and unstable. He found it difficult to maintain his equilibrium, hiding it by staying close to Blaise. Hands found his shoulders and back, the Slytherins, and maybe even a few Ravenclaws (Corner was a nasty bloke) who had come to spectate congratulating him openly as they left the classroom. Isla shushed the crowd as they spilled out into the hallway, reminding everyone that they were out after hours despite it being the weekend, and that they didn’t want to get caught by a roaming professor and explain exactly what it was a group of students had been doing on a Sunday evening that had gotten them so riled up. Draco smiled the whole way to the Slytherin common room despite his pain and lack of balance, only grimacing when he and Blaise reached the safety of their rooms. 

“Want me to heal that for you?” Blaise offered quietly, where he sat next to Draco on his bed. Draco rubbed at his arm, which throbbed and tingled. 

“No, it will be fine after some rest,” Draco assured him, letting his hand fall into his lap. They sat in silence for a moment, before Blaise turned to him. 

“He was a bit better than we thought, wasn’t he?” he said openly, in a manner Draco found foreign for the boy. 

“Hm,” Draco grunted, not willing to admit that he thought the battle was a close thing. “He got what was coming to him in the end,” Draco said with a shrug that sent his shoulder to throbbing again. 

“How long will he stay a chicken?” Blaise asked, a dark humour twinkling in his eye. 

“Until I turn his sorry arse back., Draco told him, chuckling softly. 

Blaise shook his head, his mouth quirking up in a lazy smile. “Oh, I do love it when you’re clever, Draco,” he said in an airy tone. 

Draco turned to him sharply, hiding the sudden flare of pain in his arm. “I’m always clever,” he said defensively, daring Blaise to refute him. 

Blaise only shrugged, standing to stretch. “If you say so,” he yawned. “If your arm is fine I think I’ll head down to the common room.” He gave Draco a sly smile. “I’m sure there will be a few girls down there needing a bit of comfort after watching that duel.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “They’re going to need more than comforting after dealing with _you_ ,” Draco told him as Blaise headed for the door, deciding to ignore Blaise’s comment about his arm. 

“Ta, Draco,” Blaise said absently as he exited. 

Draco watched him go with bleary eyes. He slumped where he sat, then fell gracelessly against the soft bedding. He was beat, his magic nearly depleted after the spell he’d conjured to aid him while blind, and the complicated transfiguration of Corner into a chicken, and his arm ached with increasing fierceness. But the pain wasn’t enough to ward off the tiredness that washed over him as he lay on his bed. 

He couldn’t even muster the energy to undress before sleep claimed him that night.

+++

AN: If you've enjoyed the story so far, please leave a comment. :) 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The following day saw Draco favouring his right arm even more than usual. Blaise pretended not to notice, but only because Draco didn’t comment on it. Blaise had taken to doting on Draco in a way that only a Slytherin could; sticking by his side and snapping at anyone who dared near his friend. Draco found the behaviour annoying mostly because he truly was working on being more open to those around him in order to foster his reformed attitude towards his peers, and Blaise’s antagonistic behaviour wasn’t helping his cause in the least. But he appreciated the sentiment. By lunchtime, though, Draco was ready to turn Blaise into a chicken if the boy didn’t let up. 

No one looked at him when he sat down to eat, which was at least three steps back from the progress he had made last week. With a pointed glare at Zabini, Draco started up a meandering conversation about their first week of classes. The subject changed from classes, to Hogsmeade, then dating, with ease only afforded to students. Draco enjoyed his meal and the conversation, feeling, for a change, truly involved. There wasn’t much he could say on the subject of dating, but he found it interesting to note that there was more inter-house flirtation going on than in all the previous years he had attended Hogwarts. And this was only the second week of school. 

He stood halfway through his meal, startling Blaise and Sylvia both. He waved away their questions as he set off out of the Great Hall at too brisk of a pace for either of them to follow without tripping over themselves. He threw a quick glance behind him and saw that no one followed. Keeping his steps brisk, Draco approached the doors to the infirmary in no time. Madam Pomfrey had the shutters to the windows thrown wide open, allowing the afternoon sun to give life to the usually drab setting. The way its beams hit the stark white sheets of the empty cots lining the edges of the room was enough to bring tears to Draco’s already sensitive eyes. He blinked until his vision no longer swam and surveyed his surroundings. A door at the far end of the room burst open and the abrupt, piercing cries of a bird in distress filled the room before the door slammed to a close. Madam Pomfrey, summoned by Draco’s presence, hurried toward him with an expression like murder. Her usually kind demeanour was pulled tight, pinched at the corners of her eyes and mouth so that Draco took an involuntary step back. 

“Mister Malfoy,” she greeted him with what sounded like forced politeness. “How may I help you this evening?” 

Now that he knew her ire wasn’t directed at him, which must mean that no one had cared to enlighten her to the fact that it was Draco who was to blame for the current state of Michael Corner, he had to fight the grin that tugged at his lips. “Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat to buy himself some time. “I’m having a bit of a problem with my arm,” he said levelly, and gestured to the offending appendage. “Nothing I have seems to work, so I was hoping you might have a remedy for me.” 

“Hmm,” Madam Pomfrey stepped forward, a hand firmly gripping at his wrist, the other placed atop his shoulder as she stretched out his arm and gave it a bit of a rotation. Where normally he would grit his teeth and hide the pain that radiated up and down his muscles, Draco grimaced and let it show. “Ah,” she said, and gently pulled his arm out so that it was level with his shoulder. 

Draco grunted, his mouth screwing up tight. 

“Oh, dear,” Pomfrey said ominously, nodding. “I’m sure its nothing I can’t put to rights. Come.” She dropped his arm and shuffled off to the nearest cot. “Sit, sit,” she urged him, her hands fluttering about him in a way that called his mother to mind. She waved her wand over him once he was seated, humming and tisking as she saw fit. 

“ _Magic_. You didn’t get this from falling off a broom,” she murmured, her eyes flickering to meet his briefly, as if to encourage him to explain. Draco said nothing as her fingers massaged his muscles. She huffed, dropping her hands. “Shirt off, please,” she said, and it was more of a demand than a request. 

Draco shucked his outer robes, glancing around as he undid the buttons of his shirt. 

“Oh, come now, I didn’t know you were one to be shy, Mister Malfoy,” she teased him as he neatly set aside his top. Draco scowled but said nothing else, suppressing a shiver as the cool air of the infirmary encompassed him. He could feel his skin break out in goose flesh. “You were hit with some pretty advanced magic.” Pomfrey raised her wand, summoning a book from a desk near the door she’d come out of. She snatched the tome out of the air with Seeker reflexes and paged through it until she found what she wanted. “Here it is,” she announced cheerfully. “And you’re showing all the right symptoms; bruising, residual pain,” She reached out and poked his arm again and Draco flinched. “Swollen muscles.” She looked at him. “Having trouble with the students this year? I should report this to the headmistress.” 

“That’s not necessary,” Draco said hastily, drawing a sharp look from Pomfrey. “Can you fix it?” 

Madam Pomfrey snapped the book closed and set it down on a side table. “Of course I can fix it.” She sounded offended that Draco would even question it. “I picked up on something else too. Having trouble with your vision?” 

Draco nodded. He was mostly fine, but occasionally he found his vision blurring, or black spots popping in and out of sight when he concentrated too hard on anything for too long. 

“Nasty business, these hexes. But I’ll have you right in no time.” She brandished her wand again and seconds later Draco sighed with relief as the pain left his arm, and his vision sharpened into clarity. “How’s that?” she asked him. 

Draco worked his arm slowly at first, and then with more vigour as he found it was free of irritation. “Good as ever,” he told her with a smile. She hesitated, unused to seeing Draco’s expression hold anything but cool disinterest, but her answering smile was genuine. “Thank you, Madam,” he added graciously, and reached for his discarded shirt. 

“I’ll be with you in a moment, dear,” Pomfrey said, addressing someone behind him. 

Draco twisted around to see who it was she was talking to, only to meet the gaze of Hermione Granger. For a moment he sat frozen, staring, before his brain kicked back into gear and he stood, shirt in hand, to face her. He dipped his head at her in greeting before turning his attention back on Pomfrey. She waved her wand over him again, then told him he was free to leave if there was nothing else troubling him. He thanked her again and took his time putting his shirt back on. When he got to the buttons he looked up to see Madam Pomfrey talking quietly with Granger, who looked a bit flushed. Draco pulled on his school robes and slung his bag over his shoulder. He only caught the tail end of Pomfrey’s sentence as he neared the two of them on his way to the exit. 

“…last check up just to make sure your system is clear.” Pomfrey smiled briefly at Draco as she passed him. “Good day, Mister Malfoy.” 

“Madam Pomfrey,” he said with a nod. His eyes turned to Granger and he touched her arm, halting her as she stepped to follow Madam Pomfrey. “Alright Granger?” he asked with a smirk. He knew she’d seen him shirtless; he’d stood up to make sure of it. Draco no longer played Quidditch for his team, but he’d made sure he’d kept himself familiar with a broom during the summer, Quidditch being one of his only solaces at the Manor. He knew he was fit. He couldn’t contend with Krum, who Draco knew Granger had had a thing for back in fourth year when Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament, but he wasn’t anything to laugh at. Where Krum was all thick shoulders and calves the size of a Christmas ham, Draco’s build was that of a Seeker, slim and toned. True, he was pale as most respectable aristocrats were, but his skin was free of blemishes. Well, save for the scar left by Potter after he’d stupidly cursed Draco with a spell he’d known nothing about. But Draco bore that scar proudly, a token of his unlikely survival. In the past Draco had looked upon the silvery marks with distain, wishing that there existed a potion that could wipe the scars clean, but by the time he had discovered one he realized the scars bestowed upon him a certain virility he found agreeable. 

Granger nodded, her eyes not meeting his. “I’m fine, just a check up, is all.” She seemed to regain herself, for she looked at him straight on. “What about you? Why are you here? Are you alright?” 

Draco shrugged his newly healed shoulder. “Nothing old Poppy couldn’t mend,” he said vaguely, not wanting to get into the details of what had brought him here. Besides, he wasn’t sure how Granger would react to finding out he’d duelled Corner last night, or to the fact that Corner could now easily be mistaken for Hogwarts next dinner item. Draco’s smirk grew as he envisioned the fight Corner would put up as he was cornered by one of the cooking elves, to be beheaded, plucked and roasted to perfection. Maybe then he would find his place in life, Draco mused. Certainly Draco would enjoy his meal. Hm, that was rather macabre if you thought about it. 

“See you later, Granger,” he said easily, and for a moment his smirk faltered as he thought about apologizing for his actions last night, but he didn’t like the idea of bringing it all back up again. Best to leave it for some other time. He nodded at her, barely registering her parting, “See you, Malfoy,” before he was off. 

+++

Hermione entered the great hall with her mind elsewhere. As the sweet and savoury scents of honey garlic chicken wafted through the air, leading her nose toward the Gryffindor table even as her feet seemed to drag their heels, Hermione tried to push Malfoy to the back of her mind. So what if he flipped switches faster than old-time telephone operator, she needn’t let it bother her. Though it had looked as if he’d regretted his words at the end of it all. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for reacting that way, they were, after all, still getting used to being nice to each other, and walking such a slender tightrope between their former loathing of each other and this new, hesitant friendship, was sure to be cause for a wobble here and there, let alone one or the other of them plunging off the side. 

Spotting the bright red heads of Ron and Ginny in the sea of black robes crowded along the benches, Hermione hurried toward her friends, sliding in-between them gratefully. Ron didn't look angry or hurt, which led her to believe Ginny hadn’t said anything to him about their earlier conversation, and Ginny herself looked to be in better spirits. 

Ron leaned over to her with a warm, slightly exasperated, grin. “Look who finally remembered that man cannot live on books alone.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and bumped Ron’s shoulder with her own, feeling a mix of relief and sadness at the familiar teasing. As Ron laughed loudly at his own words, Hermione reached out and helped herself to chicken and vegetables. Why was she considering ending this? Ron was familiar, he knew all her faults and flaws and still loved her. He was safe and made her feel the same. He would always be there for her. So why was her heart no longer beating fast when she saw him? Why were little things Ron did grating her nerves raw these days? 

“So what’s the next big thing?” Ron was saying, leaning out over the table to talk to Harry, who was sitting on Ginny’s other side. “The match on Saturday only proved our team is the best once again, so the upcoming school-sanctioned match isn’t really all that important any more. I mean, sure, putting Ravenclaw in their place has its merits—especially with Corner’s bloody holier-than-thou attitude these days, but you have to admit it was far more exciting to—oomph!” Ginny had just elbowed her brother hard in the stomach, causing him to turn red and double over, just as Hagrid meandered past. 

“Hello Hagrid,” Hermione said politely, casting an anxious glance between the half-giant and her gasping boyfriend. Ginny was already smiling sweetly, her hands back in her lap and her posture perfectly innocent; Harry was red in the face from trying not to laugh. 

Hagrid slowed his naturally quick gate and looked down at them. “Oh, hello, you lot,” he said with a grin, his dark eyes bright over his masses of beard. “Havin’ a good start o’ term? Stayin’ out o’ trouble?” 

“Oh yes, Hagrid,” Ginny said with a grin. “You know us, never ones to go looking for trouble.” 

Hagrid’s smile widened to show teeth, a feat that caused a first year across the table from them to squeak and knock over his goblet of pumpkin juice, though Hagrid didn’t seem to notice. “Though yeh do seem to _accidentally_ stumble across a fair amount o’ it, don’t yeh?” he said sagely, though his eyes twinkled. 

Hermione considered this. This was supposed to be a quiet, normal, school year for them all, what with no Dark Lord looming in the background, but it hadn’t been so far. Trouble still cropped up, and she supposed it always would; she would just have to learn to deal with it. Hagrid invited them all to drop by for a visit whenever it suited them, then continued his journey toward the head table for his own meal. As Hermione turned back to her plate, she noticed a figure standing in the doorway to the hall: a tall, lean boy with a head of blond hair. Malfoy. 

The bite of chicken in her mouth turned dry and tasteless as she stared over at him. He wasn’t watching her, though a prickle on the back of her neck suggested that he might have been in the seconds before she’d noticed him. He was currently staring over at the Slytherin table on the far side of the room. He seemed to be waiting for someone, though no one immediately jumped up. She’d noticed that Malfoy’s reception among his peers was much less welcoming than it had been before the war, with him having to work twice as hard, it looked to her, for them to respect him in the way they had before. After a minute or two, a dark boy got up and headed over toward the door: Blaise Zabini. Hermione frowned after the boys as Malfoy turned and walked out, Blaise a few steps behind him. Blaise was the new Draco in Slytherin house, it seemed. Though she knew very little about him, it was becoming more and more obvious that he was the one to impress among those who wore silver and green. 

“—together, Hermione?” She turned back toward Ron, having realized he’d been speaking while she’d been analyzing the Slytherins. 

“Hmm?” 

Ron looked a little frustrated to find that she hadn’t been paying attention, but repeated his question. “On Saturday,” he said for the second time. “I asked if you wanted to go into Hogmeade together.” 

“I thought we’d already made plans to go down?” she replied absently, flicking a glance over at Harry and Ginny, then back to Ron. Ron’s ears were turning red. She wondered if she’d offended him somehow, though couldn’t see how, they had discussed this very thing just the other day, she was sure of it. Had Ron just forgotten, or—? 

“Er, well, I thought we could go in by ourselves. You know…” he hedged, fumbling over his words as he often did whenever he was forced to be romantic in any way. Ron wasn’t good with grand gestures, and Hermione had long since given up on getting flowers or other such poetic things from her boyfriend. Really, since that horrible bottle of perfume he’d given her in…was it fourth year? she wasn’t sure anymore…she’d told Ron not to worry. It wasn’t that she didn’t like such things, but she tried to keep an air of practicality so that Ron wouldn’t feel bad. Having Ron now try, with as few words as possible it appeared, to insinuate that he wanted to go on date, rather than hang out with their friends, surprised her. And it made her anxious. Hermione was still trying to work out how to tell Ron that she just wanted to be friends, and didn’t feel right feeding into his illusion of their happy relationship by agreeing; but he looked so hopeful just then that she found herself nodding and saying that would be nice… then wondering if he'd still be talking to her by Saturday afternoon. 

For the next forty-five minutes Hermione ate slowly and talked with her friends, though if asked immediately afterward what they’d discussed after Ron had brought up Hogsmeade, she wouldn't have been able to repeat a single word of it. After dinner, Hermione would normally have returned to the library to work on her homework—the common room was much too noisy—but after the misunderstanding she'd had with Malfoy an hour ago, Hermione was too nervous to go back, in case he’d be there. 

“This is ridiculous!” she muttered under her breath as she strode purposefully down a back hallway, not really on the way to any place in particular but finding that walking quickly helped her work out her anxiety. None of her friends had come with her after dinner, assuming her destination to be more scholarly than it was a present, and it was lucky for her that no one else was around this part of the castle just now either, as Hermione’s feverish muttering would probably have lent her a somewhat mad air. “It’s _Malfoy_. We had a miscommunication. If I want to make this—whatever it is between us—work, then I have to be professional. Mature. I can't just run away because he snapped at me. That’s being— _chicken_!” 

Whether she’d meant to say the word in relation to herself or not was irrelevant just then, as a feathered, clearly agitated, white barnyard bird had just come flapping and squawking around the corner right ahead of Hermione, causing her to flatten herself back against the stone wall in shock. This was just as well, as a pack of Ravenclaw students pounded around the corner after the panicked bird a few seconds later, shouting and gesticulating wildly. 

Staring after the chaos as the group flew down the hall, voices and squawks echoing loudly even as they got farther and farther away from her, Hermione started to laugh. She sank down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, and laughed until she felt tears prick her eyes. That was Hogwarts for you: even among the angst and stress of everyday life there were things like this to remind her that it could always be worse. Feeling better, though sympathetic for the poor chicken, and wondering if it was an escapee from the kitchens or a student who’d ended up on the wrong end of transfiguration spell, Hermione headed back to Gryffindor Tower with a little smile on her face. 

+++ 

Monday was the start of a new week, though already so much had happened that Hermione felt like she’d been back at school for months. The morning passed in a blur, breakfast, classes, promising to come watch Ron, Harry, and Ginny at practice that evening… Whenever Hermione felt herself becoming too melancholy over her looming talk with Ron she thought back to the bizarre chicken situation from the previous evening, and found herself giggling. 

As the lunch period was finishing up that day, Hermione excused herself from the table, promising to meet the others in the greenhouses in a little while; Madam Pomfrey had asked her to come by for a final look-over to make sure she was properly healed from her brush with the poisonous mushroom the previous week. After asking Ginny to let Professor Sprout know that Hermione might be late to the start of the lesson, Hermione headed toward the hospital wing. She hadn't had any incidents since her collapse in the library a few days ago, thankfully, but she had to admit she'd be relived to have an official 'all clear’ from the mediwitch.

Pushing open the door to the hospital wing, Hermione could see Madam Pomfrey bustling about with another student. She stepped inside the long, narrow room, with its rows of cots running along either wall, Madam Pofrey’s office at the opposite end, and waited patiently for her turn. Hearing her come in, the mediwitch glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Hermione, calling to her that she’d be with her in a moment, before turning back to finish up with her current charge. When the older woman moved to the side, raising her wand to run it over the body of the person she was working with however, Hermione’s mouth dropped open. 

Draco Malfoy was sitting on the bed, looking at her over his shoulder. When his eyes met hers he stood, as if he couldn't help himself, nodding politely, if silently, in acknowledgement of her presence. Well, at least he hadn’t gone back to ignoring her completely after their misunderstanding. Hermione had been intending to try to talk to Malfoy about that situation, but she’d intended on doing so when he was wearing a lot more clothing than he currently seemed less than fussed about, if the casual way in which he now stood eyeing her, his button-down shirt held loosely at his side, was anything to go by. 

She could feel her face heating to a fiery red, unable to help gawking at Malfoy, and prayed to whomever might be listening that her blush wasn’t as obvious from across the room as it felt on her cheeks. Hermione wasn’t stupid, she had always known that Draco Malfoy was fit, though she’d only acknowledged this fact fleetingly in the past. There’d always been girls after the former Slytherin prince, and even a few of the Gryffindor girls had admitted that he was attractive, if he’d only stop sneering at them once in a while. But Hermione had never given Malfoy’s body much thought beyond this; why would she? Now, however, presented abruptly and with zero warning, with a half-naked Malfoy, she felt completely tongue-tied. 

He had the leanly muscled body of a Seeker, much like Harry’s, though she could see that there was strength there, coiled and waiting beneath the surface of his clear, pale skin. The planes of his chest and ridges of his abdominal muscles looked like carved marble. The only disfigurement, if you could call it that, was a jagged scar across the centre of his chest, a silvery lightening bolt mark that reminded her of Harry’s forehead. This was, of course, a mark from that very boy, and Hermione wondered if Malfoy looked at it in the mirror every day and cursed the one it had come from. She wondered if Malfoy found the scar a flaw in an otherwise perfect design; personally, Hermione found the mar on Malfoy’s skin somewhat dashing. Perfect things were, in her opinion, bland in their perfection; it was the little mistakes, flaws that other people might find jarring in their search for beauty, that she thought added character and charm. A chipped tooth, a birthmark, a scar… This scar only made Malfoy more handsome. Her eyes drifted lower, running over a trim waist and then on to the wings of hipbones curving down into the waistband of expensive black trousers. Hermione wrenched her gaze away at that point, distantly aware that Madam Pomfrey had been speaking to her. 

“…last check up just to make sure your system is clear.” Hermione nodded, trying to concentrate on the routine questions the mediwitch was asking, instead of sneaking glances at the boy behind her, who was taking an arrogantly long time to do up the buttons on his shirt. When Madam Pomfrey turned slightly a minute later, nodding at someone who had come up beside her, Hermione glanced over too—and then away just as fast. Of course it was Malfoy, having finally managed to get his robes back on, and Hermione listened to the polite exchange between the two as Madam Pomfrey cleared Malfoy to head back to class. The mediwitch then turned away to get Hermione's chart, but just as Hermione made to follow she felt firm fingers briefly graze her arm, pulling her attention back over to the boy beside her. She was already so hyper-aware of Malfoy just then, that, in that brief touch, she very nearly flinched as if electrocuted. 

“Alright, Granger?” 

He was smirking at her, clearly very aware of how uncomfortable he’d made her and highly amused by the situation. Hermione wanted to be offended and annoyed at Malfoy, but she knew her innocence in such matters was clear. She and Ron, though they’d snogged on many and varied occasions, had never progressed to the level of removing clothing, and on the few occasions in which Hermione had seen Ron, and Harry for that matter, without their shirts, they’d been swimming in the pond over the hill from the Burrow, and there was nothing sensual about seeing either of the boys hurling themselves off rocks in an effort to see who could make the biggest splash while they hollered “Cannonball!” at the top of their lungs. Malfoy was another entity altogether, so familiar and yet so foreign, brazen and confident in his looks and his body, such that Hermione felt absurdly shy standing there in front of him, almost as if she were the one half-dressed. So she answered Malfoy with a forced calmness that probably sounded as wooden as it felt coming out of her mouth, all the while trying to find a place for her eyes to land that was no where near any part of the boy in front of her. 

It occurred to her a moment later, that Malfoy had to have had a reason for being shirtless and sitting on a bed in the hospital wing, and somehow she didn't think the seduction of the Hogwarts Matron had anything to do with that fact. Feeling suddenly anxious, she finally looked up at him. “Why are you here? Are you alright?” 

Malfoy shrugged, brushing off her concern, though there was something shifty about his eyes as he did so, his smirk growing as if at some private joke. Feeling vaguely irritated, Hermione wanted to press him about it, but Madam Pomfrey was on her way back toward them so she let it pass; and then Malfoy was walking away, tossing a “See you later,” over his shoulder with a smug little nod, as if he knew exactly what he’d done to her insides in the past few minutes. Feeling breathless and shaken, Hermione bid Malfoy goodbye and rejoined Madam Pomfrey for her own checkup.

+++

Draco sat at his desk flipping through the small stack of letters he’d arrived to after dinner. There was a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper that he’d set aside to open last, the familiar spark of excitement rushing his fingers as opened his letters. Even at his mature age, Draco still found he enjoyed presents, and this parcel _was_ a present—as he had recognized his mother’s writing. He was delighted to see that, despite the gap of a year that had passed between his previous year and his present one, his mother continued her tradition of gifting him for surviving his first week of term. It had started, of course, during his first year after he had written home, lamenting to his mother about how boring the classes were, how dull the students had been. Narcissa, having raised Draco and grown keen to the ways in which her son communicated, had read between the lines and saw the letter for what it really had been: Draco was afraid of this new venture and was intimidated by the challenges set before him. Her next letter had bore a small token of encouragement, an opalescent scarf so soft it was almost criminal. It had smelled faintly of his mother’s favourite perfume. The shade of it was a dark green color reminiscent of the thick forest of trees surrounding the Manor, blanketed in a hazy dew and illuminated by an early morning sun. The significance of the scarf’s colour wasn’t lost on Draco, it was meant to remind him of home back when home had been a safe haven. Even now the scarf hung in his armoire, along with a few others he’d required over the years. Though he’d never worn it, Draco owned a scarf in the same regal shade of maroon worn by Gryffindors. He liked that scarf but he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. 

One of the letters had been from the Ministry of Magic, a thick envelope stamped with the ornate _Department of Mysteries_ emblem. Draco had hastily opened it, smiling softly to himself as he read through the letter. He’d previously sent word to the department’s head inquiring after internship opportunities, stating that he’d be interested, that the Ministry should remember him when his NEWTS rolled around. If—no, _when—_ he and Granger figured out that Charm of his, he knew the department would look upon the accomplishment favourably. It was just the type of thing the Department of Mysteries would find intriguing. The department’s returning letter had been businesslike, promising nothing but informing Draco that they were interested in bringing him on if he proved himself worthy. This wasn’t the first time Draco had contacted the department, so they were familiar with his correspondence, but he thought it wouldn’t hurt to remind them that he was interested. 

The last two letters had been what Muggles cleverly coined ‘junk mail’, and he tossed those aside after only reading the first lines. That left the parcel from his mother. After looking around to make sure no one was watching him, Draco tore into the paper to reveal a box no bigger than his hand. Upon opening it, Draco’s eyebrows rose. In it laid a simple, yet gorgeous wristwatch. The straps were made of stiff, black leather and Draco allowed himself the simple pleasure of breathing in its rich, earthy scent. The case of the watch was polished silver in the shape of two snakes each swallowing the tail of the other. Draco instantly loved it. Snakes were dangerous, sneaking little creatures, the perfect symbolic animal to represent Slytherins. In the past, Draco easily identified with snakes, enjoying how they were viewed as something to be fearful of, but these days he found he identified with them in an entirely different way. He could be scary and intimidating on the outside with the possibility of badly hurting those who threatened him, but was actually rather nice to have around once you got past the bravado he posed. He knew some people even kept snakes as pets, though Draco wouldn’t go that far. Caging such a majestic animal was nothing short of tragic. 

He wrote a quick reply to his mother’s short letter, which Draco had had to piece together after he’d accidentally ripped it to fragments in his excitement to unwrap his gift. He would make a trip to the Owlery the next morning to send it off. There was no use disturbing his owl now, as he was probably busy hunting down his next meal. 

Finished with his post, Draco’s thoughts turned to the events of the day. After the downfall of their leader Sunday night, Corner’s minions had apparently decided that the task of harrowing Draco wasn’t in their best interests. They’d left him alone in double DADA that afternoon, going so far as to avoid eye contact with him the whole time. Unable to pass up the chance at driving home his victory, Draco had made it his business to pass by them as the class separated into groups to practice the newest defensive magic taught to them. 

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he’d said, his tone conciliatory as he’d strolled past them, smirking at the way they glared at him, mouths drawn tight. Blaise had snickered, playing the role of a taunting lackey with ease. Despite their taunting, Corner’s mates had kept their distance. It was amazing what a difference Corner’s absence made as Draco traversed the halls of Hogwarts. There were still students who felt obligated to hex him now and again but the whispers of the Ravenclaw’s attack on Draco in DADA last week had been replaced with rumours about Corner’s whereabouts. His mates were loyal, Draco would give them that, as they hadn’t spilled the beans that Corner was currently experiencing firsthand what it was like to be a flightless bird. 

Draco would almost say the day had been boring, it was so routine; if it hadn’t been for the frequent thoughts of Granger that plagued him. Those certainly weren’t par for the course. He had glimpsed her infrequently throughout the day, having no classes with Gryffindor, and each time he had seen her, her bag heavy against her hip no doubt weighed down with more books than were required of her by Hogwarts already strenuous courses, he’d felt a strange pull somewhere in his stomach, and his mind would flash back to the Hospital Wing, where she had seen him sans robes and shirt. He recalled the way she had blushed so prettily before being distracted by Madam Pomfrey, and the way her clever, chocolate eyes failed to meet his when he had spoken to her. He thought of the way she had stretched, her back arching in that casually sensual way that only women seemed able to achieve, effortless. He thought of the tenacity with which she approached everything that came before her, how, even when she was at a loss for words, she pressed on, undeterred. Granger held a plethora of knowledge, and she knew it, but even when she took on that lecturing tone of hers Draco never felt as if she were trying to throw her intelligence in his face. She could be gentle, carefully explaining her thought processes, allowing Draco to reach the same conclusions as hers in his own time. Still, Granger did not suffer fools, and she was quick to bite back when Draco’s mouth got the best of him. 

“Melville’s _mine_.” 

Blaise’s deep tones brought Draco back to the present. He looked up at Blaise where he’d perched himself on the edge of Draco’s desk. “Hm?” 

“That look on your face,” Blaise unfolded his arms to lean back on his hands. “I’ve seen it before, though never on _your_ face.” He gave Draco a meaningful look. “If you have designs on Sylvia, I’m here to tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He paused and levelled a smirk at Draco. “She’s mine.” 

Draco scoffed, though he hesitated to completely dismiss Blaise’s supposition, not wanting him to jump to other conclusions about whom that fond look was truly meant for. “Is she,” Draco said lightly. “Last time I checked, you don’t leave the girl you’re looking to lock down blowing in the wind every other day.” 

Blaise shrugged, humming. “Sage advice coming from Slytherin’s resident bachelor,” he challenged. “Don’t forget, we’ve roomed together since the beginning. This place was practically a brothel after fourth year.” Blaise looked at him from the corner of his eye, his mouth quirked up in a shrewd smile. 

This made Draco laugh, and he let his amusement ease the tension in his shoulders, built by the stress of actually trying in class. “You’re speaking in pure hyperbole,” Draco countered, waving away his friend’s accusation. “I wasn’t that bad.” 

Blaise straightened, raising himself to all six feet, two inches of his height. “Do I need to remind you of how many pleasant little sleepovers the occupants of this dorm have had to endure as a result of your—“ He flapped his hand in the air. “Coupling.” 

Draco grimaced. “What a disgusting word.” 

“Ooh,” Blaise leaned over and picked up the box holding the new watch Draco’s mother had sent him. “Secret admirer?” Blaise asked him, his eyes glancing down at Draco as he tilted the box so that the light flashed against the silver snakes. 

“No, my mother,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes, not at the fact that his mother had sent it to him, but for the assumption that Draco held the attention of anyone who had such fine tastes in accessories. 

“Nice,” Blaise said quietly, before carefully placing the box back on the desk. “What’s a bloke got to do to—” 

Draco raised a finger in the air, cutting Blaise off. “If you make one more remark about my mother, Zabini, Merlin help me, Corner’s condition will look like a trip to Mallocra in comparison to what I’ll do to you.” 

“Fine,” Blaise said shortly, slumping back into his relaxed posed. “But Narcissa is a catch, no matter how you look at it.” 

“She’s my _mother_ , you sick ba—“ 

“You know, we should really implement a swear jar,” Blaise said casually over Draco’s ungentlemanly swearing. “I’d make a fortune off of you lot.” 

“Fat lot of good that would do you,” Draco snorted. “Those galleons would go missing within a week.” He closed the jewelry box and stood, walking over to his armoire and stowing it away in a drawer spelled to open only at his touch. He loosened his tie as he turned to face Blaise, who was examining his nails for blemishes he wouldn’t find. “Shouldn’t you be off to bed? Those bags under your eyes are growing unseemly.” 

Blaise balked at Draco, his fingertips pressing at the skin under his eyes. “Bags?” he said with horror that those who didn’t know him would think artificial, but that Draco knew to be sincere. Draco grinned and Blaise, scowling, picked up the most convenient item to him, a bottle of black ink—thankfully stoppered—and threw it at Draco, who snatched it out of the air with a hearty laugh. “How dare you,” Blaise said, standing to turn on his heels and march off toward his bed. He drew the curtains with finality. 

Still grinning, Draco faced his armoire again to find something to sleep in. 

+++

Unfortunately Corner had returned to classes the following day, Draco’s confidence that only he could return the boy back to his original configuration dashed likely by Headmistress McGonagall. She was no longer an acting professor at Hogwarts, but she was whom Draco would turn to if he needed a complicated Transfiguration broken. Corner no longer walked the halls like he owned them. Gone were the open taunts and puffed chest, to be replaced by a brooding countenance that only boosted Draco’s already upbeat mood. He didn’t sink so low as to openly confront Corner, but Draco didn’t shy away from the boy if their paths crossed. The Ravenclaw’s change in attitude was noted by their fellow peers, the gossip mill churning feverishly as those ignorant of what spawned such a change in character worked to connect the dots. Draco knew his secret couldn’t be kept for long. Hogwarts wasn’t famed for its stealth when it came to a good bit of news, but Draco had time. Corner sulked about, but his reign was not forgotten and those who had witnessed the duel were probably still cowed by the possibility of Corner coming down on them if they blabbed. 

Draco wasn’t late to Herbology, but he didn’t rush to be the first to arrive either, as he had done the week prior. Maybe the air between he and Granger wasn’t cleared, but he also didn’t feel as though he should avoid her. That had been real concern in her eyes he had seen when she’d inquired after his health in the infirmary. Granger wouldn’t be so concerned if she were truly angry with him, would she? Now that Draco thought about it, Granger had been rather upset with the Weasel on several occasions in the past, and the two of them snogged regularly. He couldn’t help the way his face screwed up at the image that thought conjured. It had everything to do with imagining Weasley in a romantic situation, he was sure. 

Phil was becoming a regular amongst Draco’s band of Slytherins, boosting their paltry number of three to four as they filed into the greenhouse. The room was teeming with chatter as they entered and filled in the empty spaces at a predominantly Slytherin table. Blaise had hovered intimidatingly over a pair of Slytherins, who, once they understood what Zabini wanted, vacated their spots so that Blaise and Sylvia could sit across from Draco and Phil. Blaise’s power play didn’t endear Draco any further with his fellow housemates, but he paid it no mind as he was content with his current lot. 

A quick scan of the room established Granger seated with her usual gang of Gryffindors, and Draco noted the odd configuration of the group. Where usually she sat beside Weasley, Granger held a place between Potter and another Gryffindor Draco was only vaguely aware of. His gaze didn’t linger long, he didn’t want Blaise to catch on to what it was he was doing and Granger’s attention was otherwise occupied. 

Professor Sprout swept into the room with her usual energy, quieting the swell of noise with her presence alone. She brandished her wand over the room in three great waves, darkening the windows all around them so that the image she conjured on the wall illuminated their upturned faces. They would still work on their group projects throughout the week, but there was still much ground to be covered on the _Venenum Purpura_ Flos, and there was a general clatter as everyone took out quills and parchment for note taking, before the class settled into the lecture. 

+++

Hermione shifted on her bench, glancing over at Harry out of the corner of her eye. Harry was currently facing the opposite direction, chatting amiably with Dean Thomas, who was perched atop the table just behind theirs though, and didn’t notice. On Hermione’s other side was Parvati Patil, her long sweep of thick black hair resting over one shoulder. Lavender wasn't feeling well that afternoon and had chosen to stay back in the Tower and rest, with the promise that Parvati would get her notes, and with the assurance that Hermione would placate Professor Sprout if she said anything about the other girl’s absence. Hermione had nothing against Parvati particularly, though the two girls weren't really friends, but she was finding that Parvati served a helpful, if guilt-inducing, purpose in class that day which suited Hermione’s needs: keeping Ron away. Ever since Ron and Parvati’s sister had had their one, disastrous date—if you could really call it that—at the Yule Ball back in fourth year, both girls had cherished a distaste for the second youngest Weasley. This dislike of each other was normally not a big deal, as Hermione and Ron didn’t spend a lot of time with either girl outside of classes, but today, having Parvati rooted to the bench beside her, determined to copy Hermione’s perfect notes for Lavender, Ron had decided to bunk up with Dean, Neville, and Seamus at the table behind them. 

She was very aware of Draco Malfoy’s entrance into the greenhouse a few minutes later. It was impossible for Hermione not to notice. Though Malfoy entered in a pack of other Slytherins, Zabini, the blonde Sylvia Melville, and another boy whom Hermione thought she might recognize from the other day when she’d seen Malfoy playing cards out in the grounds, he still stood out to her. Forcing her eyes to stay on her parchment, where she was carefully scripting that day’s date and lecture heading, Hermione could still feel her cheeks flushing, and quickly rearranged her hair to try to hide them. She could still see in her mind’s eye the way Malfoy had stood in the hospital wing, bare-chested and smirking, and even the thought of him in that state sent her heart to racing. Why was it always in this class that Malfoy distracted her so? 

Professor Sprout swept in then, a fine rain of dirt shaking off her robes as she moved between tables, waving her wand to darken the glass walls as she called the class to attention. “This afternoon we return our study of the _Venenum Purpura Flos_ ,” Sprout began brusquely, flicking her wand at a chart she’d conjured at the head of the greenhouse. If you’ve all been keeping up with your reading then you’ll have a good understanding of the flower’s uses in many ancient poisons, several of which are still in common use in gardening today. They aren’t generally dangerous to humans so long as they take proper precautions when handling them, and, of course, don’t ingest them; though in basic pest control for the average wizarding garden, adding a few petals from the _Venenum Purpura_ to your pesticide potions will convince most unwelcome insects to get their nibbles in your neighbour’s yard and not your own.” She allowed herself a low chuckle before continuing on with a run down of which sorts of gardening potions the students might want to look over in their parents’ sheds if they were curious, and Hermione tried to concentrate on writing down everything Professor Sprout was saying. After a few minutes of studied note-taking, she allowed herself a glance over at the table that Malfoy was sitting at. Blaise was looking back at her. 

Feeling her lips part in surprise and the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck from being caught out, even if she’d been doing nothing more then casually glancing across the room, Hermione stared at the Slytherin boy for several long seconds, only managing to wrench her gaze from his when he smirked and winked boldly at her. She ducked quickly back over her parchment, feeling rattled. Blaise had a strange affect on her which Hermione couldn’t quite figure out. One moment he seemed to be perfectly civil, chatting with his friends, teasing, just generally being an average teenage boy, and the next he was giving her a look that saw right into her soul. And she wasn’t sure that she liked it. Malfoy was busy chatting with Sylvia when Hermione next chanced a look, hiding behind her hair and using the excuse of checking something Harry had written down for a reason to be facing anywhere near the direction of the Slytherins’ table, and Zabini, thankfully, seemed preoccupied with flirting in the dark with a girl at the next table over while Sylvia’s back was too him. 

After another fifteen minutes, Professor Sprout finished up her lecture and announced that the class could work on their personal assignments for the remainder of the period. This was where Hermione's clever plan to avoid Ron fell through. Parvati was partnering Lavender and Dean for their project, and rose to move to the table behind Hermione to sit next to Dean, muttering a little about the extra work Lavender was causing her by being absent that afternoon,and Ron took the pretty Indian girl’s vacated seat as the class got up and started wandering around to find their project-mates. Ron was smiling as he sat down next to her, but the look seemed strained, as if he was forcing himself to act natural and as such was looking decidedly the opposite. 

“Let’s get to it then, shall we?” Hermione said briskly, attempting to focus on the project highlighting cross-pollination between the _Venenum Purpura_ and other magical plants in the same genus. Ron was quieter than usual, less picky about Hermione’s ideas or antagonistic about her making their project more complicated than it needed to be. She only had to remind him once that this was a NEWT level class and as such they couldn’t just do the easiest sort of project they thought they could get away with and still pass. Well, Ron was welcome to, but Hermione, she informed him, was intending to get Os in all her NEWTs and Ron wasn’t going to hold her back. When she caught Ron and Harry exchanging their usual exasperated eye-rolls when they thought she wasn’t looking, Hermione found she felt relieved instead of annoyed. Her boys were still the same. She hoped they’d be like this the next time they worked together. After she finally plucked up enough courage to speak with Ron. 

+++ 

After class was over that afternoon, Hermione decided to take a walk through the grounds armed with her Herbology textbook and her knowledge of muggle biology, planning to hunt up some live specimens to study for her Herbology project. Professor Sprout had given her a few small terracotta pots in case she found any plants she wanted to bring back to the greenhouse to study in her off-school hours, and suggested she look along the edges of the Forbidden Forest. She’d stressed that Hermione wasn’t to go more than a few feet inside the tree-line on her own, though if she thought she might have better luck deeper in, Professor Sprout had volunteered to go with her at a later time, or else suggested that Hermione ask Hagrid to accompany her. 

The forest didn’t feel so ‘forbidden’ to Hermione any more; she’d been in it enough times over the years and met many frightening creatures—not the least of which was Hagrid’s half-brother Grawp, but after the Battle of Hogwarts many of the creatures who made their homes within the trees chose to keep well back from the open grounds where they might chance to run into magic-users. Carrying her small stack of pots in the crook of one arm, Hermione balanced her open Herbology textbook in front of her, glancing between the page of plant sketches and the flora that populated the tree-line she walked along. She was just standing up from repotting her first plant when she caught sight of something in a small clearing a little way into the forest. Curious, she left her book and pots, aside from the one in her hand, and moved closer, wondering if it was Hagrid at first, but quickly discarding that theory when it became obvious that the person—for she could tell it was a person now, by the legs she could see stretched out on the grass—was much too average-sized to be half-giant. Creeping quietly through the brush, Hermione made her way into the little clearing, wondering who would be foolish enough to take a nap feet from a potential plethora of magical and possibly dangerous creatures. 

The person was a student, she realized, upon seeing a pair of uniform trousers covering the boy’s long legs, a fact which seemed obvious now, as none of the professors would do something so foolhardy, and it wasn’t a stranger either. Draco Malfoy was stretched out under a tree, his arms behind his head. Patterns of shadows drifted across his still features, as a gentle breeze tossed the branches overhead and teased the fine blond hair across his forehead. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell rhythmically. 

The whole scene was utterly bizarre to her, least of which that Malfoy had allowed himself to lay out on the grass with the potential of getting dirt or grass stains on his expensive robes, let alone the fact that the look on his face was was so… peaceful. I guess it’s true what they say, even the most vile person looks innocent in sleep, Hermione pondered to herself as she watched him. But Draco Malfoy wasn’t vile to her any more. He was too much of an enigma these days for any one word or emotion to describe him. 

Without really becoming aware of it until she was already moving, Hermione found herself walking closer to the sleeping boy, overcome with a strange curiosity to see Malfoy with his guard down, a feat rare enough in itself. The wind blew a few longer strands of Malfoy’s hair across his face, tickling his nose and causing the boy to mutter in his sleep, though he didn’t wake. Holding her breath, she took another step closer, wondering why he was out here alone. The late afternoon sun was warm enough, though already it was low in the sky, the promise of dusk on the horizon, but the breeze blowing off the lake was cool. Hermione shivered a little, hugging her arms around her waist to stave off the chill of the coming evening. 

Somehow she found herself standing right in front of Malfoy, his long legs stretched out before him, his robes undone in the front and billowing gently in the low wind. Hermione found herself memorized by the slow, even, rise and fall of his chest, beneath the crisp, white dress shirt he wore, his silver and green Slytherin tie endearingly askew. She felt her cheeks heat a little as the memory of just what that chest looked like in its natural state sprang vividly to her mind’s eye. 

Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy so rarely allowed himself to be in any state of vulnerability, but she couldn’t look away, and it might have been this that caused Hermione to take one last careless step closer— 

Her foot skidded on an uneven rock, half-hidden in the thick, lush grass of the Hogwarts lawns. In the next second, several things happened at once: Hermione felt her heart stop as she threw her arms into the air to try and regain her balance, swallowing back a yelp of surprise in an effort not to wake the boy dozing before her. Her tiny flower pot pitched wildly into the air, sailing into a tree and smashing, raining down shards of broken terracotta. And then, in an utterly cliché flurry that was not lost on her, Hermione overbalanced, pitched forward, and landed with a squeal of horror… right on top of Draco Malfoy’s chest.

He reacted so fast he might have been awake the whole time—except for the way Malfoy’s grey eyes shot open as Hermione’s elbow accidentally ploughed into his stomach, causing him to let loose a startled curse, his hands coming up to grab hold of her shoulders. In the next second, Malfoy’s fingers dug into her, gripping tightly and twisting them both, rolling her beneath him in a move so quick that she didn’t even have time to gasp in fright. 

Hermione could feel the indent Malfoy’s sleeping form had made in the grass underneath her now, though she had squeezed her eyes shut the moment she started to fall, her entire body tensing at the horror of what was about to happen and her inability to prevent it, and she hadn’t yet opened them. Her heart was beating so frantically in her chest that it was a struggle even to breath, and having Malfoy sprawled on top of her wasn’t helping matters. He might have a leanly muscled physique, but he was still heavier than she was, and his weight pinned her to the grass as surely as her own fear did. 

She could feel Malfoy’s shoulders beneath her palms, having instinctively thrown her arms up to ward him off when he’d grabbed her, and now she could feel the quick rise and fall of his body as the shock of adrenaline pulsed through him, speeding his breathing. He’d shifted once they’d rolled over on the grass, and now lay with one forearm pressed into the earth to stop his momentum, his other arm bent at the elbow, keeping his full weight from crushing her smaller form. When Hermione finally managed to force her eyes open, she found Malfoy staring down at her with an expression unlike anything she’d ever seen on his face before. For a moment the look in his quicksilver eyes was completely open: genuine, naked, shock on his face. This quickly faded into a look of incredulity as she blinked meekly up at him, feeling a hot blush blaze across her skin, setting her entire body on fire. Oh Merlin, she’d done it now… 

“Hermi—Granger?” His voice was groggy with sleep, and he sounded half-unsure, half-incredulous, as he squinted down at her through narrowed eyes. Hermione swallowed hard, feeling her own eyes unnaturally wide, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish as she tried to think up a reasonable explanation for having just accidentally assaulted Malfoy while he was taking a nap. Before she could speak, however, the look on Malfoy’s face relaxed, a slow smirk pulling his lips up at one corner. The look in his eyes changed to something she couldn’t quite explain. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger,” he drawled, amusement colouring his tone as he ran his eyes over her furiously blushing face, “you could have at least waited until I was awake. I feel so cheap.” 

If it was possible for a human being to spontaneously combust, Hermione Granger was sure she was moments away from becoming a living fireball. For a long moment she just lay limply on the grass, unable to formulate words. The heat of Malfoy’s body was leeching into hers, his hard stomach pressed against her belly, his legs tangled among Hermione’s own. But, despite the easy, carelessly mocking look he’d dredged up once the initial shock of finding her beneath him had worn off, she could feel the way Malfoy’s heart was beating almost as fast as her own was, the way his voice had been just a shade unsteady when he’d teased her. 

“I—I—” Her mouth was suddenly dry; Malfoy’s face was very close to hers, and this fact, combined with the way every fractional movement he made with his body pressed so close against her setting off electric pulses in her brain, rendered her quite speechless. 

When she didn’t answer him right away, Malfoy’s smirk slipped a little. “You alright, Granger?” he asked with a slight frown. “Did you hit your head or something?” 

She must have done. There was simply no other explanation for why her heart was racing in her chest and her vision was swimming. This was Draco Malfoy, Hermione informed herself sternly. She was _not_ attracted to him. Not in that way. Not in _any_ way! It was just that he was so bloody close, and despite the fact that she’d startled him out of sleep with an elbow to the gut, he wasn’t exactly making any moves to let her up. 

“I—I slipped,” she finally managed to whisper, wishing she could breathe without feeling her chest brush Malfoy’s every few seconds. Swallowing hard, Hermione nervously wet her lips, struggling for something else to say in her defence. Above her, one of Malfoy’s eyebrows arched sharply. 

“Did you now?” he queried, and though his voice was steady, a casual drawl that gave nothing away, he couldn’t hide from Hermione the way he was suddenly holding his body very, very still. 

The rigidity of Malfoy’s form was in direct contrast to the the anxious tremble that had started up in Hermione’s own limbs, and she pushed weakly against his shoulder, trying not to let on how nervous she suddenly felt. There was something about being so close to Malfoy that made her heart race these days. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, not really. At least, not in the way that she might have been in the past. More so because of the way he had of looking at her, like he could see straight into her soul, her every strength and flaw laid bare before him. Hermione wasn’t used to being seen like this. Of course Harry and Ron knew she was intelligent, and of course they respected her as a person and a friend—Ron even as more than a friend, though Hermione really wasn’t sure where they stood on that point at the moment—but Malfoy had a deep, searing gaze that he was unafraid to set loose on her. 

“Yes,” she retorted, turning her gaze to somewhere just past Malfoy’s shoulder and striving for a haughty tone, though not sure she’d entirely managed it. “I was just doing some research for my Herbology project.” She flicked a glance in the direction she’d heard her poor pot shatter, as if seeking proof that she hadn't just come upon Malfoy and decided to throw herself at him, and Malfoy’s eyes followed her own. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. If you’ll please let me up, I’ll let you get back to—to whatever you were doing.” 

+++

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas! Please review! :) 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Draco quickly grew bored of this new phase of the Blaise/Sylvia courtship. Instead of focusing on the task of breaking down the subtle differences of fluoride in relation to how close or far away the soil was to bodies of water, the two of them had taken to quarrelling with each other on the exact definition of a pond. They skirted the real issue: Sylvia had caught Blaise flirting with the girl seated a table over from theirs, in that ambiguous way that only couples could. When Sylvia had turned to Draco, intending to draw him into their little lover’s spat, Draco had ignored her to focus instead on the words of the text before him. He knew nothing good would come of his involvement in Blaise’s drama. This was Zabini’s odd way of enticing Sylvia, though ‘enticed’ wasn’t the word Draco would’ve used to describe the expression on Sylvia’s face at the moment. It was more akin to ‘livid’. 

He continued to ignore the two as he took notes, or, more accurately, recalled what Blaise had whispered to him during Professor Sprout’s lecture. He had informed Draco that he’d just caught Granger looking at over at them, more specifically at Draco. Blaise’s smile had been smarmy in the worst way, and Draco itched to punch that look clean off of his face. He’d fought off the urge, settling for a glare so cold it could freeze a fyre fiend. The look hadn’t stopped Blaise from snickering knowingly at Draco. He refused to entertain Blaise’s claim, as he was sure the boy was only looking to stir up trouble. 

Even so, Draco struggled not to turn and see for himself if what Blaise said was true. He wanted to search out Granger’s gaze, but he held himself still, his body thrumming with the effort it took not to give in to the temptation. If Blaise’s goal had been to distract Draco he had succeeded. Note taking was a lost cause; he was no longer listening to Sprout’s lecture. It was probably all in his head, but Draco swore he could actually feel Granger looking at him, her eyes a steady pressure on the space between his shoulders, daring him to look at her. Draco pretended to pay attention, but the professor’s teachings filtered through his mind without taking root. Minutes passed before he realized the class had moved on to the project portion of the lesson, and Draco scrambled to stow away his things. His eyes caught on what he had scribbled in lieu of note taking, and he was mortified to see his thoughts, unfiltered, transcribed before him. _‘Why would she be looking at me? Was she really looking at me, or had Blaise been lying? Should I look back? What would I do if she was still facing me?’_ and more ramblings along a similar vein. He shoved the parchment into his bag to be burned post haste. 

He had pushed all such thoughts aside once the three of them started in on the project. It was soon afterwards that Blaise and Sylvia had begun to argue, leaving Draco to the undertaking of working up something suitable to present to Professor Sprout when she made her eventual rounds of the greenhouse. He’d accomplished a lot by the time she sidled up to their table, Blaise and Sylvia’s hushed dispute cutting off abruptly. She read through his notes, nodding as she did so, before returning the parchment to the table. “Very good,” she said, her hands settling against her wide hips. “But I’d advise you to concentrate less on defining the difference between ponds, rivers and lakes—” perhaps Draco had been paying more attention to their argument than he’d realized—“ and more on the soil itself. You started off on the right track but seemed to deviate about…here.” She placed one stubby finger midway through the second paragraph. “Otherwise I believe you have a strong foundation.” She graced the three of them with a bright smile and moved on to the next group of students. 

Blaise had the grace to look contrite when Draco glared at him, a shrug his only response. Sylvia, for her part, was still wrapped up in her own vexation, for she stared down at the empty table before her, her small fists balled up where they rested against its surface. Draco only shook his head at the two of them, resigned to the fact that there would be many more arguments, bleeding into tension within the group and ultimately leaving Draco to finish this project for them. He supposed it was retribution for the many times he’d left the more gruelling aspects of group work to his counterparts in years past. In truth, he didn’t much mind, for his intense concentration lent him an excuse not to dwell on the urge to look over at Granger. 

+++ 

When class finally let out, Draco rolled his eyes at the way Sylvia gathered her things, her movements stiff and angry. Blaise pretended not to notice, picking up where he’d left off with the infamous girl from the other table. Draco noticed that Blaise watched Sylvia’s carefully unhurried retreat from the greenhouse, his eyes lingering unabashedly on her swaying hips. The girl he was talking to didn’t seem to notice, overwhelmed as she was by Blaise’s regard. Draco watched with a small pang of sympathy for the girl as Blaise cut her off mid-sentence, his crooked smirk and brush of fingertips against her arm enough to subdue her confusion at being interrupted. She didn’t know that she was simply a pawn in Blaise’s labyrinthine game of chess. He excused himself with more clemency than he’d shown earlier, and left with the same studied lack of haste as Sylvia had. If Draco knew Blaise, he was sure the two of them would be snogging in an dark alcove somewhere before long, Sylvia clinging to the small hope that Blaise truly did like her, and Blaise revelling in the success of his machinations. 

The song and dance was familiar to Draco, the objective to leave one’s intended to flounder in a sea of uncertainty and longing until the day arrived at which their relationship would be solidified in a night of passion. It left the orchestrator with the upper hand, the power dynamic skewed unfairly in his favour, his partner feeling lucky to have been chosen over the others who vied ferociously to be in her place. It was a long game, but one that wasn’t uncommon among purebloods and nobles who had been allowed to choose their suitors, as opposed to falling prey to an arranged marriage. Even under those circumstances Draco had seen this tactic employed, though he wasn’t sure how any woman could be disillusioned to think their partner could have ambitions towards another when their marriage was already secured. Draco supposed both participants knew full well it was all a deception, and one they willfully engaged in if only to trick themselves into thinking they had any say in the matter. 

Draco made his own way out of the greenhouse, only stopping to summon a house elf, instructing it to deposit his bag in his rooms in the Slytherin dorm. He retrieved the parchment he’d written his unrefined thought processes down on, cutting it with a wave of his wand so that the actual productive bit of his notes would be spared the eventual demise of the parchment he now held in his hand. 

He wove a winding path across the grounds, steering clear of Hagrid’s Hut where he could see the half-giant toiling away in his gardens, no doubt harvesting some nasty, vengeful plant from its home in the soft soil. His path brought him to the outer edges of the forbidden forest, and Draco gazed upon it with a bitter fondness, it’s shady barrier evoking memories of detentions served gathering some obscure item or another. Draco still thought those detentions hadn’t exactly been proper, what with the dangers the forest held against a budding wizard too afraid of what might catch him to suitably defend himself. Now, though, Draco felt no such threat. He’d survived living with the Dark Lord in his home, Death Eaters with all the morals of a rabid kneazle, roaming his halls—harbouring pent up aggression and ready to spend their energy against anything that looked weak enough to allow it. And Draco had been weak in those days, cowering in his bedroom when his presence wasn’t required. He’d seen enough torture to last him a lifetime. Those revolting scenes were the fancy of some of his worst nightmares even to this day, but they had helped to solidify his frail defences, allowing Draco to build a wall so tall and solid between he and his emotions that he began to feel nothing while he witnessed the twisting, writhing bodies of Muggles and Dumbledore sympathizers. The Dark Lord and his minions cursed and slashed at them, their blood inconsequential to the Death Eaters who’d circled them. It didn’t seem to bother them that they could so easily be in their victim’s place. All it took was one wrong look to set the Dark Lord off, his temper so close to the surface. 

Returning to the present, Draco saw that he stood in a small clearing not too far within the forbidden forest. The sun still found its way through the branches of the tall trees around him, a good sign that Draco would be relatively safe if he chose to linger. After making sure the ground was dry enough to sit upon without causing him discomfort, Draco bent down and splayed his long legs before him, tilting his head back to look up into the forest canopy. The light danced before his eyes, playing off of the lively green leaves above. Draco relaxed further into the soft floor, his body prone as he stared up into the fleeting snatches of blue sky. Absently his fingers played with the knot of his tie, unintentionally loosening it as he picked at the crisp folds of fabric at his throat. 

His mind turned to his mother, who had been a pillar of hope during those dark times. She had looked after Draco as much as she could with the ever-watchful eyes of Death Eaters about the Manor. She couldn’t be seen babying him, as that would call their attention, and they would take it upon themselves to harden Draco as they saw fit. His mother had made that mistake once before, coming to him after he’d been interrogated by the Dark Lord during his seventh year, their cruel leader seeking to rend information out of Draco about Potter’s movements within Hogwarts. As if he would be privy to any important information. What did he think, that he and Potter were bosom buddies, spending every waking minute with each other? That he had been invited to join the Order of the Phoenix, and sat in on their meetings regularly? The Dark Lord would do better by bringing in that oaf Weasley if he wished to gain anything useful. The Golden Trio, and Hogwarts at large, shunned Draco. 

He was of no use to the Dark Lord, a fruitless leech surviving only under the protection that his name afforded him. But rationality wasn’t one of the Dark Lord’s strengths, and he’d been dismayed by Draco’s lack of knowledge. He lashed out at him, cursing Draco until he’d bitten clean through his lip in his effort not to give the Dark Lord the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He’d suffered other injuries, his head connecting again and again with the unforgiving marble floor as he’d flailed. When he’d been dismissed from their gathering, Draco had limped his way to his room, waving away the house elves who popped into existence, begging Draco to allow them to heal his hurts. Not even his soft bed provided relief for the aches of his body, the surface only serving to further aggravate his bruised skin. 

His mother found him sitting hunched over in a chair by the window, his eyes cast down to the ground as he stared blankly at it. He shivered, all warmth drained from his body despite the fire blazing heartily nearby. “Oh, Draco,” his mother said, her thin fingers reaching forward to tilt his head up so that she could look at him, exposing his purpling cheek and bleeding lip to the flickering light. It was these words that broke him, or maybe it was the way his mother touched him so tenderly, either way his resolved crumbled, and he pressed his face against her middle, ignoring the pain that throbbed to life where his cheek met her stomach. His shivers took on a new intensity, his shoulders shaking as he let his sorrow consume him within the safety of her embrace. It had only lasted a minute, that was all he would allow himself, before he pulled away from her, dashing at the streaks his tears had left behind. It was a good thing too, as just then two Death Eaters barged into the room. Draco didn’t know if it was his mother they sought, or he, but it didn’t matter. When their eyes fell on the intimate scene before them, their expressions twisted in glee and excitement. 

“Has mummy come to comfort you, little dragon?” one of them jeered, to the amusement of his partner. The use of his mother's pet name for him smarted against his already bruised ego. 

Narcissa, realizing her mistake, stepped back and drew herself up, her face a blank canvass that conveyed nothing. “I’ve only come to inform him that dinner would be served soon,” she said, her cultured tones pitched to sooth. But the two Death Eaters were having none of it. They descended upon Draco, wrestling him from his seat and out of the room. The beating that followed was one Draco wouldn’t soon forget. 

Blinking, Draco bit back the urge to let that sorrow claim him now. He wouldn’t let the past ruin him. He had so much to live for. There was the prospect of his internship at the Ministry to look forward to. There was his Charm, a clever bit of magic he’d thought of himself. 

And…and there was Granger. 

His smile was faint, but there nonetheless. Granger, who had probably been staring at him today in class. Suddenly feeling loads better, Draco closed his eyes, relaxing into the gentle heat of the sun shining down on him. 

He was jolted awake by a sharp pain in his stomach, and the unmistakable weight of another colliding against him. His eyes flew open, his body moving on instinct as he took hold of the shoulders of his attacker and spun them, using his mass to trap the person beneath him. There was no struggle as he had expected, instead he felt hands on his shoulders, the body beneath his slight. His eyes focused on the familiar features of Granger, her eyes screwed shut against him. 

A beat passed, and Draco’s jaw loosened, almost falling open, his eyes rounding as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. She opened her eyes, her face shaping around her mortification. Disbelief swept in to replace the shock of what had just happened. So caught off guard, Draco nearly addressed Granger by her given name, only correcting himself at the last minute. She flushed, and the sight of it chased away the fog of his slumber. He was instantly more awake than he could ever remember being. 

He assessed the situation, thoughts flashing through his mind so fast he could barely dissect them, before he settled on taking advantage of the opportunity Granger’s sudden appearance beneath him granted. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger,” he all but purred as he took in her face, taking pleasure in the way her blush persisted. “You could have at least waited until I was awake. I feel so cheap.” His body, which had been tight with the adrenaline of fending off an attack, slackened, which inadvertently drew their bodies closer together, if that were possible. 

Granger stuttered, unable to form a response, which worried Draco enough to question if she were alright. He hadn’t been gentle with her, his instincts, possibly spurred on by reminiscing on his troubled past, kicking in and forcing him into action. He could have injured her, caused her to hit her head or maybe incited another fit similar to the one she had experienced in the library. Her response was whispered, barely audible over the murmur of the wind through the trees. Her tongue peaked out, wetting her lips and the sight of it tugged at something carnal deep in the recesses of his mind. Where before he’d hardly paid mind to their closeness, Draco was now all too aware that he was pressed so intimately with Granger that he could feel every single movement of her body, no matter how slight. Her breathes came quick, such that the space between his chest and hers ebbed again and again with each intake, her body soft and pliant in contrast with the hard muscle of his. She trembled, the subtle vibrations moving up and down the length of her, calling Draco’s attention to the rest of him, where it rested neatly against Granger. In an instant he felt his muscles tighten, his body stiff and unyielding against the constant agitated motion of Granger. In any other situation Draco would relish this spontaneous cuddling, but under the circumstances he felt decidedly wrong footed, not in the least because it had been accidental, a cruel turn of fate for Granger. She’d slipped, she said. 

“Did you now?” he asked, his voice carefully vacant of the tumult of emotions boiling through him. He tore his eyes away from her mouth and their eyes met briefly, before Granger looked away. She explained what had brought her out to the forbidden forest in the first place, and Draco looked at the smashed mess of her clay pot where it sat in pieces at the bottom of a tree. Still, that didn’t quite explain how she’d ended up assaulting him. Maybe she’d seen him sleeping and grown angry that he could find peace after all that he done. Her reasoning probably wasn’t as dramatic as all that, but the dots just weren’t connecting for Draco. She said she’d tripped, but why had she been close enough to fall upon him in the first place? Had she been standing there, watching him as he dozed? What purpose would that serve, other than to confirm that, yes, even amazing Wizard’s such as Draco needed sleep. The thought reminded him of their time in the library when he’d blown up on her. Granger had said something similar about needing to eat when Draco had accused her of not wanting to be involved with creating his charm. No, it just wasn’t making sense. What had Granger been doing? 

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. If you’ll please let me up, I’ll let you get back to—to whatever you were doing.” 

Draco’s smirk fell back into place and he shifted so that his left arm bore most of his weight, his right hand lifting to tug a dried leaf from Granger’s hair. Her wary eyes followed his movement, frowning when she realized what he held up in the thin distance between them. He placed the leaf on her forehead, chuckling as her eyes crossed to look at it. His laugh brought their chests together once again, and Draco thought that he’d better remove himself from her person before his body decided to react in a way that was altogether inappropriate. He rolled off her, tucking his hands behind his head as he lay on his back. “No need to run off, Granger,” he murmured, slanting a glance her way. “We were only just getting started.” 

Granger sat up, a shower of forest debris breaking loose from her as she did so, and twisted, her hands clutching at something that Draco couldn’t see, before she turned to him and tossed a pile of browning leaves in his face. The impact of her actions was lost as the leaves scattered, missing his face entirely, and Draco flipped onto his side, his body curling in on itself as he gave into his amusement. Seeming to prefer anger over embarrassment, Granger frowned at him, the expression so charming on her usually kind features that Draco was hard pressed to take her seriously. 

“I told you, I tripped,” she repeated, and stood, dusting off her robes, which still held a few stray twigs and grass when she’d finished. Draco propped his head up on his arm, still obviously entertained. She _Reparo_ ’d her broken pot before collecting it. 

Draco sat up when it seemed she truly was irritated, his grin relaxing into a rueful smile. “No, really, don’t leave, Granger,” he implored, trying his best to sound apologetic despite the laugh he could still feel threatening to overtake him. 

She turned to look at him, her pot held close as if it would somehow help ward her against Draco’s smirking eyes. “Why should I? You’ll just continue to laugh at me.” 

Draco turned to face her, his legs folding pretzel style before him. “I won’t, I promise.” He pressed his lips together, assuming a grim expression as he crossed his heart. When Granger didn’t look convinced he rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t laughing at _you_ , necessarily,” he lied. “I was laughing at,” He paused, searching for a reason good enough to persuade Granger that Draco didn’t find her funny, which he did. “The circumstances,” he finished lamely. 

She stared at him and Draco noticed that the blush hadn’t quite left her face. He stared back, quirking an eyebrow as she reached her on conclusions. She levelled a glare at him after a bit more staring and took a few tentative steps forward. “If you so much as chuckle…” she warned him, as she took a seat a safe distance away, her eyes stern. 

Draco grinned, unbothered by her threats. She’d sat down, so Draco knew she wasn’t as ready to bolt as she wanted him to believe. “What did you say you were doing before you decided to have your wicked way with me?” he said lightly, flinching as she found something more solid than leaves to toss at him. He let it hit him in the shoulder with a forbidden chuckle. 

“Collecting samples for Herbology,” she said, and she seemed satisfied with her aim despite Draco’s lack of suffering. “Though I’ll have to collect more now that I’ve ruined that one.” She gestured toward the sad, crumpled plant half obscured by soil. 

“I could help you,” Draco offered. “Between the two of us we’ll probably get it done before the sun goes down.” Draco looked about as if reminded that the evening was waning. He was surprised to note that the sun had sunk lower than he had initially realized. He must have been asleep for some time before Granger arrived. The prospect of doing something as mundane as collecting plants with Granger appealed to Draco, who still felt a bit jittery. His body still prickled with the sensation of being pressed against Granger, his heart not receiving the message that nothing more would come of it. It beat a hasty pattern against his ribs. His skin was uncomfortably warm in defiance to the chill brought on by the setting sun. It was a creeping, flickering heat that started in his chest and spread all the way down to his toes, ready to ignite to life once fed. He was tempted to relieve himself of his robes, but thought better of it, not wanting to let on to just how affected he truly was. “What do you say, Granger?” he prompted, as his gaze turned back to her. He hoped what he felt wasn’t obvious. Draco was good at hiding his emotions, but he was not without limits. 

+++

Malfoy was smirking at her again. It seemed he’d recovered from his earlier shock and was now enjoying teasing her because of the precarious position she was in. Her heart still thrumming with the nearness of him, Hermione heard her breath catch as Malfoy shifted his weight, his body sliding against hers as he settled himself onto his left arm, his right hand moving toward her face. His hand was large, fingers long and elegant—a piano player’s hands, if she’d had to guess, and considered asking Malfoy if he did indeed play, just for something to pierce the sudden tension in the air between them. Instead of touching her cheek, or whatever intimate gesture her mind had drummed up, Malfoy’s hand moved past her, stopping just above her ear to pluck something from her masses of brown curls. 

Confused and curious, Hermione tracked the movement of Malfoy’s hand as he held the small object out for her to see: a half-wilted leaf, before dropping it onto her forehead in a gesture that was at once playful and mocking. He chuckled lowly as she frowned up at him, thrown by the action and finding herself squinting, cross-eyed, up toward the top of her head, trying to figure out what game he was playing. The vibrations caused by Malfoy’s laugh pulled her sharply back to the present. His body was still pressed so close to hers that she could feel every part, from the way his ribs vibrated against hers to the heavy, yet strangely pleasant weight of his hips and legs as they rested against her. A moment later, Malfoy seemed to fully appreciate their position and abruptly rolled off her. 

Hermione sat up quickly, feeling abruptly awkward at Malfoy’s sudden jettison, and tried to avoid looking at him any more than necessary as he stretched out casually on the grass, seeming completely at ease as he folded his arms behind his head and drawled, “No need to run off, Granger. We were only just getting started.” She felt her heart skip a beat at this low, gently mocking insinuation, a flush of an entirely different kind of heat creeping up her neck and sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. She wasn’t entirely naive to Draco Malfoy’s love life. Even before they’d begun spending any kind of non-antagonistic time together, Hermione had stumbled across Malfoy and some girl or other pressed together in alcoves around the castle; it occurred to her that Malfoy was a smooth talker and had more than likely done things with his girlfriends that would set a permanent blush to her face. 

Feeling irrationally irritated by Malfoy’s words, she reached down and clutched a handful of leaves in her right hand. Turning back to where he lay, eying her smugly from beneath lazy lids, Hermione tossed the leaves in his face, hoping to startle a reaction out of him; anything to make him stop smirking at her in that self-assured manner that proclaimed he knew exactly how anxious and awkward she was feeling and was greatly amused by that fact. Her ‘attack’ exploded into a puff of gently drifting foliage somewhere in the air between the pair of them, no where near their intended target, and Malfoy twisted his lithe body to the side, a real laugh bursting from him this time. 

Channeling her embarrassment into hardened annoyance, Hermione glared at the boy chuckling beside her, muttering her explanation for their recent entanglement once more as she pushed quickly to her feet and turned to hunt down her pot, body held primly erect as she tried to hide her discomfort. Locating the shards a few feet to her left, she pulled out her wand and tapped them, murmuring “ _Reparo_ ,” under her breath so that they reformed into the small planting pot once more. When she turned back around, Malfoy was laying with his head propped on one hand, watching her. When she looked at him, he sat up, his mirth ebbing slightly as he attempted to look contrite, apologizing for antagonizing her, though his grey eyes were still bright with amusement. 

Hermione felt her stomach give a little flutter at the look on Malfoy’s face. She still felt battered, both from her fall and from Malfoy’s initial rough handling of her person, though she knew she couldn’t fault him for not being gentle, she would have reacted the same way if she’d been the one startled out of sleep by someone landing on top of her; especially if it had been him. She was frankly surprised he hadn’t either cursed her or struck her in the chaos of it all. But the look on Malfoy’s face just now was so open, so genuine, that she couldn't help but stare at him. Feeling distinctly wrong-footed at this new, teasing Malfoy, who picked leaves from her hair and stayed pressed against her far longer than she had expected him to, considering who she was, Hermione clutched her little pot against her chest, a feeble and unsatisfactory shield between her and uncertainty as Malfoy tried to convince her to stay. 

“Why should I?” she heard herself ask, a little too petulantly for her liking, though she couldn’t help herself. “You’ll just continue to laugh at me.” Across the clearing, Malfoy sat up, crossing his legs, then his heart; swearing solemnly that he would not, promising that it was only the circumstances that amused him. She gave him another glare for good measure, finding solace in the familiar facial expression. Bantering with Malfoy was safe territory, safer still was doing so while they were several feet apart. With a last threat against him breaking his oath, she lowered herself back to the grass—keeping a healthy distance between them. 

“What did you say you were doing before you decided to have your wicked way with me?” 

A jolt shot through Hermione at this casual question from the boy stretched out beside her. It was such a Slytherin thing to say, to get a dig in at her while her embarrassment was still hovering just below the surface. She grabbed the first thing that presented itself to her randomly reaching fingers and flung it at Malfoy. The surprisingly hefty stone thunked against his shoulder before falling to the earth, pulling a grunt from the boy, followed by a deliciously illicit low laugh. Hermione had to bite back a giggle herself, and quickly looked away, cheeks blazing once more, though less in anger than Hermione was ready to admit to herself. Through sheer strength of will, she managed to keep her voice steady as she reiterated that she was working on her Herbology project, and received a second, not-entirely-unpleasant jolt when Malfoy offered to help her search out specimens. She looked over at him quickly, but he was looking up at the sky, seeming surprised that the sun was so low. She wondered how long he’d been out here before she’d stumbled across him and caused this whole mess. He turned to face her again, and the setting sun backlit his head, haloing his blonde hair with gold and throwing his aristocratic features into shadow. 

“What do you say, Granger?” 

+++ 

She said, “Okay.” 

Well, more like stared at Malfoy in what was probably a rather rude manner as his offer echoed through her head, until her more polite sensibilities kicked back in and she’d managed to nod her acceptance and eke out an audible response. As she pushed to her feet once more—Malfoy beside her, unfolding his long limbs with that uncanny grace he seemed to possess in all things—Hermione chanced a quick look at Malfoy’s face. The boy was a study in contrasts. Though he kept his expression neutral, even lazy, there was a certain tightness about his eyes, his mouth, even his shoulders. He seemed on edge, though he played the cool, smug, party boy with such naturalness that anyone who didn’t know him well would never have noticed that he was unsettled. And perhaps that was what surprised her most of all; not that Malfoy was so uneasy after their encounter, at least not entirely, but more so that she was able to tell these things about him. 

Trying to cover her own anxiousness about this new arrangement, Hermione gestured back the way she’d come. “I left my bag over by the tree line,” she told Malfoy, turning and starting to walk back in that direction, her ears pricked to hear if he would follow. After a few seconds she heard Malfoy’s heavier tread pick up, and soon he was walking next to her. Upon reaching her discarded textbook and small pile of pots, she hesitated, suddenly feeling unsure. Malfoy stood a few feet to the side, patiently waiting for her to explain what she was looking for, and Hermione tried not to think about him watching her as she bent down and gathered her things together. Arms full of a stack of six flower pots, including the one she’d mended, and her thick Herbology textbook, she turned back around, hoping her expression looked professional. 

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat somewhat awkwardly, and tried to flip the pages of her text without dropping her pots. “I was trying to find this one,” she gestured with her chin at the image of a small flower similar to a snowdrop, except for its bright teal petals. “It’s supposed to grow in damp places with only minimal sunlight. I expected to find it growing in the forest, but it must be further in and, well, it isn’t advisable to go wandering around in there alone.” 

“Except if you have detention,” Malfoy said drily, and Hermione looked over at him. He had a wry smile on his face. “Honestly, Granger,” he continued conversationally, as they started to meander along the edge of the trees. “Has no one ever questioned why? I mean, since the first year we came to school here, it’s been all ‘Stay away from the deep, dark ‘forbidden’ forest’, but as soon as you mess up it’s the first place they send you.” 

Hermione glanced sideways at Malfoy as he talked, feeling an amused grin tug at her lips. “Perhaps the professors were hoping that the troublemakers would take care of themselves,” she suggested, only half joking. She’d often wondered at the absurdity of doing detentions in the forest herself, thinking that there were far more useful things that offenders could be doing instead, rather than blundering around the trees where they were like as not to get in over their heads. She recalled the few times she’d been on the receiving end of such a punishment, and how badly things had gone. 

“Maybe they should have tired harder,” Malfoy murmured darkly, seemingly to himself. “A lot of trouble might have been avoided.” 

The sun dipped lower in the sky as they passed the edge of the forest and started strolling along the top of a bluff near the lake, a rose-gold glow washing over the grounds and causing Hermione to squint slightly in its glare as she turned to look at Malfoy. He was already looking at her, his expression pensive. “Maybe we should try down by the lake,” she offered after a long pause, during which Malfoy only stared at her, a strangely intense look in his eyes. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, feeling self-conscience at his unblinking gaze, and started to turn in that direction. “There must be some crevice in the rocks where the conditions are right.” 

As Hermione shifted her weight in the direction of the lake, she fumbled her supplies, the flowerpots tipping sideways and her textbook slipping in the opposite direction as she tried to regain control. “Oh!” she yelped, wobbling like a waiter trying to control a heavy tray, and feeling everything start to tumble—and then suddenly two large hands were reaching around her, one steadying the tower of pots and the other catching the edge of the book, so that together they managed to catch everything before she dropped it all. 

Malfoy’s sudden movement had brought them both very close again, Hermione frozen, hunched over her flowerpots, her eyes now level with Malfoy’s navel, and she could feel herself blush once again; with the sun sinking ever lower, she hoped it wasn’t visible on her face. There was a gentle tug on the textbook then, and Malfoy’s low voice murmured in her ear, sounding suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh again. “Why don’t I carry that for now?” Before she could protest, he’d removed the heavy book from her arms and started flipping through it, until he found the page she’d marked with the blue flower. Once he’d found it again, he glanced over at her. Quickly, Hermione straightened up; leaning the flowerpots against her shoulder for balance, she took a steadying breath, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin, trying to gather the shreds of her dignity. She’d never been so clumsy before, what was wrong with her today? 

“Shall we?” Malfoy asked, nodding in the direction of the lake. He began to walk again, and Hermione followed, a pace behind. There were very few students still out in the grounds at this time of evening, most would already be tucked up in their common rooms, so she only saw a scattered couple of people as she followed Malfoy down toward the lake’s edge, and none of them were nearby. They had come out at the far end of the field between the castle and the lake, and the bluff was craggy here. The way down to the stretch of sand that ringed the lake’s edge was rocky, and Hermione came to a stop, eyeing the descent warily. Malfoy kept on going, picking his way over the rocks with ease, only stopping when he realized she wasn’t following him down. Turning back, he climbed back over the rocks and held out a hand toward her. She blinked at him, staring at his broad, open palm until his lips quirked into his familiar smirk. “I won’t bite, Granger,” he called up to her, his hand still held steady in the air. “Let me help you down.” 

Hesitantly, Hermione lifted her arm, stretching out her fingers toward Malfoy’s palm, feeling absurdly as if she were about to put her hand into the mouth of a snake. When she was close enough, Malfoy leaned forward and wrapped his long fingers around her smaller hand, gripping firmly, his arm tensed to steady her if she tripped. His hand was warm, and faintly calloused, which was surprising to Hermione; somehow she’d always pictured the feel of Malfoy’s hands as smooth and unmarked, the hands of an aristocrat. They made their way down to the beach in short order and Malfoy released her hand as soon as they were on the ground again. Though, and maybe she’d imagined it, but he’d seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before letting go, and she felt the loss of his warm grip more acutely than she’d expected.

+++

Draco’s offer hung in the air; obviously something Granger felt she had to think over if the amount of time it took her to reply was any indication. She accepted with a strangled affirmation, and they stood, Granger explaining that she needed to collect her things. Draco took a moment to shake loose his robes before he followed her, and they walked side by side until they reached the area Granger had chosen to search for her samples. Her pack lay open on the ground and beside it rested an open textbook, a streak of dirt smeared across one of the thick tan pages. Draco could imagine Granger’s small frame huddled over her work area, a thin finger running the length of the page as she read. He could picture her carefully digging into the rich soil once she was sure a plant was the one she sought, gingerly prying the plant from the ground to place into one of the waiting pots. A row of stoneware sat next to the book, empty and ready for use. 

Granger began the challenge of stacking each item in her arms, every placement more precarious than the last. When she rose Draco was tempted to extend his assistance; the way she had heaped the book, pots and bag in her arms seemed to be a direct challenge to gravity, but since she hadn’t asked, Draco stayed his tongue. Somehow she managed the flip through the pages of the book, indicating the plant she was searching for, although Draco had glimpsed it, mangled as it was, where it had crashed to its death against the tree. 

“…and, well, it isn’t advisable to go wandering around in there alone.” 

“Except if you have detention,” Draco said grimly. To think, Draco had been in this very forest with the Dark Lord himself, weakened though he was. A young Draco would have provided little challenge against the Dark Lord even in that form and certainly not after he had feasted on Unicorn blood. He would expect that sort of unfair treatment of Draco from Dumbledore, who had to have known what Filch was up to and who had probably given Filch the idea in the first place. But to place the Chosen One in danger’s path? Dumbledore had known for years that Potter would be the one to defeat the Dark Lord in the end, so why had he allowed for their ‘saviour’ to go traipsing through a forest so dangerous that it had been something the first years were warned about at the very beginning of their time at Hogwarts? It was an anomaly, but then so was Dumbledore. Draco wouldn’t put it past the old coot, Merlin bless him, to have already been privy to the outcome of that evening and every other evening from then on. Draco supposed you didn’t find the clout to bring down your evil best friend without having a few tricks up your sleeve. 

“Perhaps the professors were hoping that the troublemakers would take care of themselves,” Granger said lightly, and Draco wished he could look on the world with such a rose-tinted perspective. He knew no respecting adult could have looked upon those detentions with anything in mind other than the downfall of their students. There was no Wizard alive that Draco could think of who would be prepared enough to fight off every eventuality that the dark forest presented, and surely not Filch. The haggard caretaker was barely concerned for anything beyond his troublesome cat. 

“Maybe they should have tried harder,” Draco said, not necessarily for Granger’s benefit. “A lot of trouble might have been avoided.” 

They continued on, clearing the shade of the forest. The sun crept across the sky, its now hasty decent casting the bowed green stretch of grass that was the grounds in clear orange and pink tones. For a moment Draco got a glimpse of what the world must look like to Granger. He turned to look at her, an observation about the picturesque view before them on the tip of his tongue, but then he saw the way those roseate hues played attractively against her skin. She looked soft in a way that Draco found nearly irresistible. He wanted to reach up and touch her cheek, see for himself just how smooth her skin might feel against his fingertips. Her eyes seemed to drink in that tender light when she looked at him. Draco never thought brown eyes could hold so much allure. To him, brown was just brown, nothing to wax poetic over, but just then Draco felt he could fill a book describing how the sun illuminated and shadowed Granger’s eyes. 

Ugh, when had he become so soft? Maybe Blaise had a point, Draco was growing quite mild these days. He never would have had thoughts like these a year ago, never would have allowed it. With Granger, Draco found himself thinking them more often than was proper. 

“…there must be some crevice in the rocks where the conditions are right,” she was saying, her words muted as if she spoke through a thick layer of treacle and Draco’s brain, turned sluggish and clumsy, struggled to understand them. 

The sharp clatter of pots jostling together placed Draco firmly within the moment. Before his eyes book, pots and bag began their inevitable teeter to the ground. He moved fast, his hands reaching round to catch hold of the most perilous of the items before they too met the same fate as the pot had. A beat passed in which they stood frozen, insuring that nothing else broke loose from their hold, and in that beat Draco saw that once again they were drawn together by Granger’s fumbling. Strange, he never knew her to be so maladroit. It was obvious that Granger was still shaken, for which Draco was both relieved and confounded by. Relieved because he was not alone in the circuitous way his thoughts distracted him, and confounded because, well, why would Granger be so preoccupied with just how close the two of them had been? He expected her to brush it off as simply an unfortunate event. Granger had been reduced to a blushing, bumbling school girl, the latter of which she was, but the former of which hinted at something Draco wasn’t quite ready to dwell on. 

He settled on being amused by the whole thing. His grip firmed on the edge of the book digging into his palm and he tugged at it. “Why don’t I carry that for now?” he said lowly, almost a whisper, so close was he to Granger’s ear. He struggled not to outright laugh as a strange, foreign lightness filled him. The book slipped free and he turned a few pages before he found the one she’d marked of the flower she’d been looking for. Granger stood, then, visibly collecting herself. The pots clanked dully as she rearranged them. “Shall we?” 

They were mostly alone out on the wide expanse of the grounds, most students where Draco most likely would have been had Granger not come upon him. Then again Draco had been so deep in slumber that he probably only would have woken upon being nibbled on by some curious forest denizen. He would have missed curfew for sure, whether because he had slept through it or because he fought for his life as that curious creature fought to claim its prey. He definitely preferred hanging out with Granger to either of those possibilities. When they reached the slope of rock that ringed this edge of the lake, Draco began to pick his way down with ease, only stopping when he didn’t hear Granger close behind. He turned to look up at her, assessing the reason behind her hesitation. History would prove that Granger traversing down the uneven path wasn’t a good idea. He retraced his steps, stopping just below her, and held out his hand. When she just looked at it, Draco smirked. Taking his hand couldn’t be worse than lying pinned to the ground beneath him. 

“I won’t bite, Granger, let me help you down.” Her hand eventually stretched down toward him, and their palms slid together, clasping tight. Draco held firm as her feet found purchase on the jagged incline, their decent much slower than Draco’s original steady pace. The heat of her palm infused Draco’s own, dainty, yet holding on with sure strength. Draco liked the feel of their entwined hands, they fit together, one large and one small, as if they were made to do so. They reached level ground far faster than Draco would have liked and he was forced to relinquish his hold on her, or else reveal how much he enjoyed it. Still his fingers trailed over hers, a brief exploration of the fine bones that made up her hand. 

A small cluster of trees huddled together in a semi-circling of large rocks near the lapping edge of the lake not too far from where they stood. The grass there grew thick and lively, bolstered by the nutrition provided by the lake that crept ever closer to it. Give it a decade and Draco was sure the lot of it would be taken in by the lake’s hungry reaches. “That looks promising,” Draco said, his voice lilting up almost in question as he pointed toward his discovery. 

Granger agreed, saying, “It looks like as good a spot as any.” 

“After you,” Draco’s pointing hand opened palm up, in invitation for Granger to precede him. 

Her expression changed then, taking on the now familiar frown of concentration Draco knew to associate with her academic mode. Her steps were sure as she made her way to the rocks, carefully stepping over them before she crouched down and surveyed the area, and Draco wasn’t far behind. If the sun had been higher he was sure they could make out what grew before them, but with evening boring on as it was, the lighting was poor. He pulled out his wand and worked a bit of wordless magic, the tip of it glowing to life. He crouched down beside her, illuminating the area in slow waves to the right and left. 

“There!” Granger reached out, her hand covering his and effectively halting the light of his wand, which fell on a collection of flowers identical to the one in the book. Just as suddenly she snatched her hand away, her eyes flickering over to look at him. Draco only smirked, and she looked away before he could waggle his eyebrows suggestively at her. “That’s it, just there by the mushrooms.” She almost threw herself into the task of retrieving the dainty flower from the ground. She set the pots down on the ground, her bag landing with a quiet thud next to them. Instead of using her hands, Granger brandished her wand and wove a glittering spell into the air that jostled the flower gingerly from the dirt. When the bulk of it hovered in the air and its thinnest roots were exposed, she turned to rifle through her bag. She brought out a small blade no longer than the length of her hand and reached forward, deftly cutting the flower free. She picked up her wand where she’d set it down next to her foot and levitated the plant into one of the waiting pots. Draco, wand tip still aglow, levitated the soil that had shook loose from the plant and deposited it into the pot. 

“How many of these are we to collect?” Draco asked conversationally as Granger dislodged another flower. 

“Three, if the experiment is to be of any worth,” she replied, her voice faint as she concentrated. She struggled with this flower, her wrist flicking up in little jerking motions to help free it. The gestures threw her off balance and she swayed on the balls of her feet. Without thought Draco reached up, his palm settling against the small of her back to steady her. He could feel the subtle flex of the muscles there as they worked to keep her upright. He could also feel the way her body stiffened in reaction to his touch, but she didn’t protest. It was a wonder how often Draco found an excuse to touch her. He wasn’t doing anything improper, per se, but his hand against her back still felt illicit, a stolen indulgence. Granger made short work of the last plant, Draco filling the remaining two pots with soil as she did so, his hand remaining in place to support her. When they were done with that Granger summoned a thin stream of water from the lake into the respective pots.

“That should do it,” Granger said with a slight smile, as she surveyed their work. 

Draco removed the gentle pressure of his hand and Granger wobbled again as she compensated for the lack of support. His fingers curled unconsciously into his palm as if doing so would somehow contain some element of the heat gained from the contact. “Good,” Draco said, his tone casual. “It’s getting rather late and I can’t imagine what people might think if they saw the two of us together after curfew.” He simply couldn’t resist needling her, finding joy in watching her squirm over the implications. 

Granger squinted at him. “I’m sure they wouldn’t jump to any untoward conclusions, as at least one of us has a decent reputation,” she said, in a tone that suggested butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. 

“You should really work on that,” Draco quipped and leaned forward to fetch the book and two of the pots before he stood. Granger huffed but didn’t indulge him with a reply. She retrieved the remaining pot and bag from the ground. 

By this point the sun barely crested the horizon, a fiery orange sliver behind the black silhouette of the distant landscape. Draco stretched; flexing the achy muscles of his legs and back. Crouching for so long had taken its toll. He released the _Lumos_ from his wand, and darkness fell upon them. In the shadows of the trees, Draco could barely make out Granger’s features. She faced him, opening her mouth to speak just as Draco did the same and, seeing that the other intended to speak, both fell silent. It was as if they were back in that small clearing in the forest, the timid, charged energy returning to them as if it had never left. In an instant Draco felt his nerves jangle and he experienced a nervousness that was markedly uncharacteristic of him. The space between them was insignificant. All it would take to close it was for Draco to lean forward as his body urged him. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her mouth until it moved. 

“We should get back to the castle before we actually do miss curfew,” Granger blurted, though her voice was gentle as if not wishing to upset the quiet around them. 

Draco blinked, stepping back. “Yes, you’re right,” he said somewhat awkwardly, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck in a clear sign of unrest. His eyes cast about for anything more interesting than the tempting bow of Granger’s lips. They settled on the castle, where Draco could make out three black figures fleeing from the cool evening breeze for the promising warmth of Hogwarts. His hand fell to his side, and when he looked at her again, his smile was easy and aloof. “Think I’ve done more work on your project than my own,” he said lightly, and then frowned. “Blaise and Sylvia are determined that we fail this quarter.” 

Granger sounded relieved when she replied. “Oh? Why is that? I noticed them arguing in class.” 

So she had at least been looking over at Draco’s table, if not at Draco himself. That small confirmation zipped around in his mind and did funny things to his stomach. Draco turned toward the castle and they began their trek across the grounds. “Blaise has decided he likes her, poor girl. And she seems to return the sentiment. She’ll be put through the ringer before the end of it.” Draco liked this topic, though didn’t fail to notice that Blaise was his go-to when he wanted to speak of something other than himself. Blaise was safe, in that both of them could agree he was a bit of a character. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Granger said hesitantly, “But I’m not sure what she sees in him. He’s…” She trailed off, probably searching for a polite way to say that Blaise was a wanker through and through. She settled for: “…unorthodox.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Draco agreed with a chuckle. “He’s a wild card, that one. You never know what you’ll get from one moment to the next. But I believe that’s part his _allure_ ,” he said, stressing the last word as if he found Blaise’s ‘allure’ questionable. 

“I thought Sylvia liked you,” Granger said, and hurried to explain herself when Draco smirked over at her. “At least that’s what they say.” 

Granger would lead him to believe that she only knew about Sylvia’s budding interest in him because of Hogwarts’ extensive rumour mill, which was a safe assumption if you weren’t a Slytherin who could recognize a diversion when you saw one. But Draco was such a Slytherin. Perhaps she kept closer tabs on him that he had originally thought. True, Sylvia hadn’t hidden her affections for him, but Granger’s knowledge of it surprised him. His smirk was rather pleased. “I like my women with a bit more sustenance in the brain department, if you catch my meaning,” he said with a shrug. 

“It’s awfully degrading to refer to people as ‘my women’ don’t you think?” Granger said reproachfully. “Almost as if you view women as something to possess rather than a partner to love and care for.” 

Draco scoffed. “Don’t patronize me with your equalist ideals, Granger,” he grumbled, not liking the way she’d assumed Draco subscribed to the antiquated opinions that ran rampant among purebloods. “I know better than anyone that a woman only allows a man to _think_ he holds the power. I grew up with Narcissa for a mother. She could play my father like a fiddle when she wanted to.” It was especially true in the days before the Dark Lord came in to power. After he’d slithered his way into their home, Narcissa’s, and even Lucius’s, resolve had been inadequate in the face of his will. 

“Just as well you know,” Granger said with satisfaction. “A man who walks around thinking he can order women around, would be quickly disillusioned once he stumbled across the right sort.” 

“Tell that to Blaise,” Draco said cynically. 

In no time they reached an entrance to the castle, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls of the tall arch that protected the entryway. Draco stepped aside, dutifully opening the door for Granger, before following her inside. It was livelier here, students rushing about, or walking lazily from one destination to the next. To their right, boisterous laughter rang through the halls over the general din, familiar and carefree. Their laughter preceded them, as Draco couldn’t see the culprit of such noise, Potter and his tagalongs having yet to round the corner. Beside him, Granger’s body grew still, her steps halting so abruptly that Draco nearly stumbled as he came to a stop a step ahead of her. 

“Granger?” he said questioningly, his brows furrowing in concern at her sudden change in mood. “What is it? Have we forgotten something by the lake?” 

+++

Things are starting to heat up... in a slow burn sort of way. ;) Please review! 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

She could still feel the burning trail of Malfoy’s fingers across her knuckles. His touch had sent a little shiver down her spine that was unsettling, yet not unpleasant, and Hermione had to resist the urge to curl her fingers against her chest protectively, hiding one hand beneath the other as she followed Malfoy to a small copse of trees holding court bravely at the edge of the lake. He stood back politely, gesturing for her to pass in a manner that she was now beginning to recognize as deeply ingrained in Malfoy; probably he’d been born and bred with the manners of high society purebloods, but she’d never had the chance to be on the receiving end of such graces until recently, and so had never associated such class with the boy across from her until now. The sun was low in the sky now, only hovering at the edge of the horizon and sinking fast, as Hermione dropped low to the ground, squinting into the shadows among the trees’ roots with narrowed eyes. 

There was something about the quickening night that placed a sense of urgency upon her. It wasn’t that she felt unsafe being out in the grounds alone with Malfoy, but the cloak of darkness around them only served to make the charge in the air between them feel more pronounced. When it had been light out, Hermione had been able to hold at bay the way her body had reacted to Malfoy’s not half an hour ago. Though he’d been surprisingly gentlemanly about the whole situation, despite his teasing, she couldn’t hide from herself the way her heart had quickened at his nearness. She’d half expected him to shove her away from him, cursing her mudblood germs, but despite his initial roughness, he’d been careful with her, tender even. The hardness of his body had recalled to her the way it had felt in the library when she’d pulled him against her, unaware of who he’d been. Though his hands had been firm, he’d been gentle with her then, too. As if in direct opposition to the memory of Malfoy’s hands, her own became unsteady as Hermione brushed at the tall grasses, searching for bright blue petals. 

Malfoy lowered himself beside her, pulling out his wand and producing a light on its tip without a word, seeming to realize just how dark it was getting at the same time she had. He moved the illuminated wand in slow, careful, arcs across the ground in front of them, allowing her time to scan the lighted areas before moving on. On his third pass of the roots she spotted a glimpse of shimmery blue peeking out from behind a gnarled root on the far side of the closest tree. Without thinking, she threw out an arm, grabbing Malfoy’s hand and gripping it to halt his movement. The action was completely natural, and as ingrained in Hermione as social graces were in the boy next to her. The only trouble was, the ‘boy next to her’ was usually Harry or Ron, not Draco Malfoy. 

Realizing her mistake with a sharp thrill of horror, Hermione twisted to look the boy attached to the hand she held. He’d gone still beside her, not pulling away, but instead glancing over at her with that infuriating smirk of his. Face hot, she yanked her hand away, turning away so quickly she nearly overbalanced herself. “That’s it, just there by the mushrooms,” she said, unnecessarily, pointing at the vivid flowers Malfoy was lighting up with his wand. 

Determinedly ignoring Malfoy—whose smirk was still so present she could practically feel it against her back—Hermione set her stack of pots down next to her knees, her schoolbag sliding off her shoulder to land with a soft thump next to her hip, and pulled out her wand. Pointing it expertly at the cluster of blooms, she began to trace a graceful and complicated pattern in the air, coaxing the flower from its home, shaking the earth from its tender roots. Producing a silver knife from her bag, she sliced the flower free, turning to levitate it into her waiting pot only to find Malfoy had beaten her to it, his glowing wand twirling in a quick movement which siphoned the loose earth from where she’d scattered it on the grass, up into the pot he had waiting in the air between them. 

They worked well together, soon gathering two flowers and repotting them, as if they’d been doing it for years. Malfoy was a quick and careful worker, his concentration unmatched, except perhaps by her own, as they finished rehoming the plants; all would have gone on without incident if one of the flowers Hermione had chosen hadn’t been particularly stubborn. Unconsciously pushing up on her toes, Hermione jerked her wrist through the air, putting a little extra oomph into the spell she was casting, trying to will the flower free. When her burst of magic sizzled through the air, sending the flower shooting skyward, she startled herself, wobbling backwards onto the balls of her feet. She would have rolled right over backwards if something warm and firm hadn’t planted itself against the small of her back. 

It took less than a second for her to realize that it was Malfoy’s hand against her spine, only a moment more to process the strength and heat coming from the broad palm and splayed fingers. Her stomach gave a little flip that wasn’t quite nerves and wasn’t quite pleasure, and Hermione felt her body tense. The reaction was automatic, just her muscles working to regain her balance, but she couldn’t deny the way her shoulders hunched and her stomach clenched at Malfoy’s casual touch either. He’d done it so naturally, just like she’d reached out and caught his hand minutes earlier, as if it was only to be expected that he’d catch her if she fell. Well, except perhaps if he was sleeping and she landed on him like a WWF champion vying for a world title.

He kept his hand at her back until they’d replanted the last flower, and she could feel his eyes on her as she guided water from the lake in a gentle arc into each pot, until the soil was appropriately damp. His fingers remained against her seconds longer than they maybe should have, before Malfoy pulled his hand back, and the gentle pressure was soothing in the chill of the night air. The loss of Malfoy’s support caused Hermione to tip backwards a little, and she realized with a faint jolt that she’d been unconsciously leaning into his touch, though its need had passed almost a minute earlier. 

As they got to their feet, she heard Malfoy say behind her: “It’s getting rather late and I can’t imagine what people might think if they saw the two of us together after curfew.” 

His tone was the epitome of casualness, his comment so dry she wasn’t sure of his implication at first. Then the evening’s earlier events crashed over her and she put an extra edge of frost into her voice with her retort. “…at least one of us has a decent reputation.” As if anyone would think anything untoward about the pair of them, at least not the sort of untoward that Malfoy was hinting at. _But_ , a tiny voice whispered at the back of her mind, _if they_ did _think that, they wouldn’t be exactly wrong, now would they?_ Glaring at the ground, Hermione snapped at her inner voice, _Nothing happened! It was an accident!_ But accident or no, she knew that something had happened, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself yet. 

When she turned to look at Malfoy, there was a glint in his grey eyes that was visible even in the weakening dusk. “You should really work on that,” came a low drawl from Malfoy’s direction, his voice a caress on the wind. Hermione felt goosebumps rise on her skin. Though his tone had been carefully teasing, there was a certain heat underlaying the words that brought a flush to her skin, prickling all over her body as she blinked at him. 

Quickly, she bent down and busied herself with arranging her bag on her shoulder and settling her last pot into a spot for transport back up to the castle. As she turned back around, Malfoy released the spell on his wand, the softly glowing light popping out of existence and leaving them in the dark; it _was_ dark now, the sun hardly a memory on the horizon. The suddenness with which Malfoy had dosed his light left Hermione blind for a moment, and she stood still, blinking to regain her night vision. As her eyes adjusted, she was met with Malfoy’s spread limbs, arms in the air and legs planted firmly, muscles tensed as he stretched them. 

There was nothing overtly sensual about the way Malfoy was moving his body, but she blushed just the same, averting her eyes from the way he was twisting his hips and and flexing his arms, working out tight muscles from having spent so long bent over tree roots with her. The sight of his flexing muscles brought with them the very kinetic memory of the way he’d grabbed her earlier that evening, pulled her tight against him and pressed her against the ground with the weight of him. Hermione felt her breath catch and her throat constrict, the air around them felt electric. 

Malfoy straightened, eyes meeting hers in the dark, his gaze pinning her in place with its blazing intensity, and Hermione was seized with a sudden fear of what might happen next. She opened her mouth to say something—Merlin knew what—at the exact same time Malfoy did, and a mix of curiosity and nerves stayed her tongue. It might have been that he felt the same just then, as when she hesitated, so did Malfoy, and the silence stretched between them. 

“We should get back up to the castle before actually do miss curfew,” she heard herself say at last, and her words were pitched soft, as if she was afraid to spoil the moment that had spun itself around them. Malfoy’s reaction to her words was a few seconds late, and when he finally did move she watched as he averted his gaze, his hand rising to scrub the back of his neck. It was an action so uncharacteristic of the Slytherin boy’s normal confidence that Hermione felt her body lean toward his, as if she might ease the tension he seemed to be suddenly steeped in. After a few moments Malfoy seemed to pull himself together, his expression when he next looked at her was smooth and in control. 

They began their trek back toward the castle, Malfoy steering the conversation into the neutral topic of their Herbology projects; when he brought up Blaise and Sylvia though, Hermione couldn’t hold back her thoughts. She just couldn’t see what Malfoy’s friend—if that was indeed all she was to him—saw in his other, well, friend—if indeed Zabini was even that. The relationships and friendships in Slytherin house, from what Hermione had garnered over the years, were fraught with tensions. Though two people might act like blood brothers one day, the next week might see them just as easily sell out their friend for a rung up the social ladder. And romance was just the same, two people using each other for a craved pleasure, taking it where they could find it, with feelings of sentiment and love rarely coming up. Blaise Zabini was one of those pleasure-takers, and if Sylvia Melville did indeed have actual feelings for him, Hermione found herself feeling sorry for the girl. Of course, now that she thought about it, Sylvia was rather fickle too, wasn’t she? Hermione could clearly recall several very public occasions in which the pretty blonde Slytherin had made very obvious flirtations involving the boy walking next to her. Hermione found herself caught up in the drama, and heard herself question Malfoy about that very thing. 

“I like my women with a bit more sustenance in the brain department, if you catch my meaning.”

She bristled at Malfoy’s comment. Perhaps he’d meant his words as an backhanded compliment to her, though the derision that laced them rankled her, whether or not it was aimed at her or the flighty Melville girl; not to mention Malfoy’s archaic and patriarchal use of the term ‘my women’. If there was anything Hermione Granger was, it was a feminist, add to that the fact that she was a witch, and well, there might be the odd muggle wondering around London on the wrong end of an enchantment or two, from the simple happenstance of their having muttered the wrong thing when she was within hearing distance. Though Malfoy was quick to answer her frosty protest to such a remark with praise of his formidable mother (and Hermione had to admit that Narcissa had her merits, especially since she’d played a large factor in helping Harry survive the War), her womanly pride still stung. 

“Just as well you know,” she responded primly, mollified that Malfoy had backed down. She liked this new Malfoy, and not just because he was willing to concede her a point on this topic. “A man who walks around thinking he can order women around would be quickly disillusioned once he stumbled across the right sort.” 

At Malfoy’s response of the unlikelihood of making his mate see her point of view, Hermione was forced to allow for the fact that some males would be hard pressed to be swayed in their beliefs, and at the head of the pack would be Blaise Zabini: a womanizer if ever there was one. If he wanted it, he took it, and unfortunately there were far too many girls at Hogwarts willing to give up their pride for a night with him. They had reached the castle now, and Malfoy pulled the door open for her, allowing warmth and light to wash over Hermione as she preceded him inside. 

+++ 

There were people here, not a lot, but the sound of voices and laughter was jarring in comparison to the quiet of the grounds where she and Malfoy had been talking as they walked leisurely back toward the castle, and Hermione flinched almost imperceptibly at the noise. She’d just started to adjust to the change in surroundings when rambunctious, cheerful laughter, and a familiar overly-loud voice boomed through the entrance hall, the barer of which was just down the Charms corridor and coming nearer every second. Hermione felt herself stumble to a halt without conscious thought, her body freezing so suddenly that she nearly tripped over her own feet. Half a step ahead of her, she was dimly aware of Malfoy jerking to a stop and twisting to look back at her in confusion. She could hear him asking her of they’d left something behind by the lake, probably wondering if she was about to dash off to retrieve some notebook or extra flower pot. 

Hermione could feel her heart trip and then begin to beat overtime as she stood in the middle of the entranceway, staring in the direction of Ron’s voice as it drifted ever closer, his laughter grating as he mocked Harry for missing what he’d dubbed the ‘easiest catch in the history of Quidditch’. She didn’t think the Gryffindor team had had a practice that evening, so they boys must have been messing about with a pick-up game. Harry said something in response that was too low for Hermione to make out, and Ron razzed him again. She felt exposed, standing there, and knew it was absurd to be frightened of running into her friends just because she was standing there with Malfoy. Glancing over at him, she noticed that Malfoy’s expression had shifted from confusion to a carefully neutral mask; clearly, he’d also deduced who the newcomers would be, and had put his game face back on. The sight of him like that made her feel a little sad. She knew that it would probably be too much to ask all the boys in her life to just let bygones be bygones and try to be friends, but it hadn’t stopped her from wishing it. 

The footsteps of the Gryffindor boys pounded nearer, they were almost at the corner now, and would come out into the foyer at the base of the grand staircase within seconds. Hermione fought the urge to turn around and flee back into the grounds. She had successfully avoided Ron, apart from classes, for most of the past two days—since her talk with Ginny—and knew that thick as he could be about some things, he was starting to notice. Having made the decision to break up with him, it was all she could think about every time she saw him, and it was tearing her apart inside. 

“Hermione!” called Harry’s voice as he entered the foyer, green eyes lighting up as he spotted her. “Were you in the greenhouses all this time? I thought I overheard you talking to Professor Sprout after class had finished—” Harry nodded at the plant Hermione held, his eyes skimming across her bulging book bag with a look of mingled exasperation and fondness, before noticing the boy standing beside her and breaking off mid-sentence. 

_Please don’t start something. Please, Harry_. Hermione felt the silent words showing in her expression and prayed that nothing would come of it. Harry wasn’t stupid, and she could see him accessing the situation as quickly as he could. Next second, Harry took a step backward, turning toward the emerging figures of Ron and Dean, his arm rising to try and prevent them from exiting the hallway. He opened his mouth to say something just as Ron, in the midst of a good-natured shoving match with Dean, tripped over his own feet and stumbled into Harry’s shoulder. Harry reached out to grab his friend’s arm, steadying him, just as Ron’s merry curses and laughing eyes moved from Dean to over the top of Harry’s head, and onto Hermione’s frozen, pleading face. His amusement fell away as he stared at her, incredulous. 

“Hermione?” He blinked at her, as if confused, unsure what he was seeing. Hermione felt herself flush, though she’d done nothing wrong—at least not on purpose—and was simply standing in the hall holding her homework. “Malfoy?” Ron’s eyes narrowed and Hermione knew her mental pleas for civility were lost on him. Harry might not like it, but he could hold his tongue if he needed to; Ron had no such filters. “What’s going on here?” 

His voice was cold and sharp, and Hermione tensed at Ron’s accusatory words; beside her she thought she heard Malfoy swear softly under his breath. She turned to look at him, thinking it was probably best to separate the two boys before things got any worse. 

“I’ll just take my flowers now,” she said hastily, reaching for the pots Malfoy held. He eyed her narrowly, but relinquished the pots, piling them into her arms where Hermione clutched them to her chest, praying she wouldn’t drop any of them. She’d meant to drop them off at the greenhouse before returning to the castle, but then the night had taken a different turn and the thought had completely slipped her mind. The flowers had been watered at the lake though, and she thought that they would hold up reasonably well for a single night in her dorm room—if they made it there in one piece. Glancing over her shoulder at Harry, Ron and Dean, Hermione noted that Harry’s fingers had tightened on Ron’s arm, gripping as if he were holding the other boy back. Dean was glancing between the two pairs, looking utterly bemused. “Thank-you for your help tonight,” Hermione said quickly, wanting to hurry things along before they got out of hand. 

Malfoy tore his eyes away from where he’d been glaring at Ron. His expression softened when he looked at her, and Hermione felt her heart give a little thump. “My pleasure, Granger,” he said smoothly, then glanced back at Ron’s reddening face and smirked. “If you have any other questions about _fertilization_ ,” he put an annoying emphasis on the word and Ron’s ears turned bright scarlet, “you know where to find me.” 

“Questions about _what_?” spluttered the unfortunate Ronald Weasley, yanking his sleeve from Harry’s grip and starting toward them. “Hermione, what’s that git going on about?”

She turned to stare at Malfoy, goading Ron wasn’t making things any easier. “Malfoy!” she hissed, and he slanted his eyes her way, having the grace to look sheepish when he met her glare. Ron was almost upon them now and Hermione turned to face him; he looked livid, and what’s worse, hurt. 

“You’ve practically been a ghost around the castle for days, Hermione,” Ron began, stopping in front of her and staring down at her so that Hermione had to tilt her head back to meet his angry gaze. “And when you finally show up again it’s coming in from the night with _Malfoy_?” He sounded both horrified and incredulous. A prickle of shame ran up her spine and Hermione felt her shoulders hunch uncomfortably at Ron’s shout. From the corner of her eye she felt, rather than saw, Malfoy turn to look at her. “ _Malfoy_ , Hermione? What were you two doing?” Ron demanded, and Hermione felt her mouth drop open. 

“What were we _doing_?” she spat, throwing the word back in Ron’s face with all the disgust he’d used to lob it at her a moment earlier. “Just what are you insinuating, Ronald?” 

Ron sputtered some more, casting a suspicious look between Hermione and Malfoy, who was standing a step behind her now, watching their interaction silently. Hermione pushed up on her tiptoes and shoved her flower pots into Ron’s face, feeling angry tears prick her eyes.

“Herbology homework! Unlike some people I know, I actually want to pass my NEWTs, and seeing as you spend classes nitpicking and complaining while I do all the work, it’s hardly your business if I end up seeking help elsewhere, now is it?” Ron glared down at her, but he looked slightly abashed. Before he could say anything more, Hermione cut across him. “And how dare you imply anything improper! Don’t you trust me? Do you even know me at all?” She was breathing hard now, anger and hurt swirling around her in an agitated whirlwind. “I have other friends besides you and Harry. Ginny and Luna and—and—it’s none of your business who I spend my time with when I’m not with you—!” 

“You’re my girlfriend!” Ron shouted, interrupting Hermione with a red-faced scowl. 

She glared up at him. “But that doesn’t make me your property!” 

Ron opened his mouth to retort but Malfoy’s voice lashed through the air like a whip. “Now would probably be a good time hold your tongue, Weasley,” Hermione heard him say in a low voice. “You wouldn’t want to say anything you’ll regret later…” 

Ron turned his furious glare on the Slytherin boy instead of Hermione then, and took a step toward him; Malfoy straightened though he made no move to attack. Both boys were tall and lean, Ron perhaps a shade taller than Malfoy, but both towered over Hermione; she felt suddenly small in the middle of their standoff. Reaching for her wand in case she had to produce a shield spell—though to protect which boy, Hermione couldn’t have said—she tensed, eying both of them warily. 

“Quit harassing my girlfriend, Malfoy,” Ron growled. “You’ve made it perfectly clear over the years that she’s worth less than the mud on your shoe.” 

Malfoy looked coldly derisive as he scowled at Ron. “It would appear these days that I have more respect for Granger’s feelings than you do.” 

Hermione could see Harry and Dean gaping at the scene in the background. Dean looked ready to join Ron in fighting Malfoy, but Harry looked oddly calculating as he watched the proceedings, as if he were thinking hard about something. “Both of you _back off!_ ” Hermione cried, planting one hand each against Ron and Malfoy’s chests and shoving them apart. Ron glanced down at her looking hurt, and that only made her madder. “The war is over! Why can’t you act like adults?”

“But he—you—” Ron protested furiously, looking stung, and Hermione thrust her wand into his face, it sparked warningly and he bit off his reply, eyeing her warily. 

“So help me, Ron, if you say one more word—” Catching sight of Malfoy watching her, Hermione turned her wand on him. He raised an eyebrow at her but held his tongue, though he kept one eye on her sparking wand tip all the same. “I’m tired,” she announced, glaring between them. “I’m going to bed. Harry?” 

Harry looked startled to be so suddenly addressed, and when she looked over at him Hermione felt more weary than she had a moment ago, when the words were just an excuse to leave the confrontation. “Er, yes?” he called, remaining in the archway at the end of the hall, and looking as if he rather wanted to bolt and leave Ron and Malfoy to their fates. 

“Could you help me with these, please?” 

Harry came forward to take two of the three pots from the crook of Hermione’s left arm, where she’d miraculously managed not to drop any of them while arguing with Ron and Malfoy. Ignoring Ron, Hermione couldn’t help a last look over at Malfoy. She felt angry and hurt that Ron had spoiled her evening, tarnishing the memory of her time with Malfoy with his harsh words. She also felt guilty, because though she had made the decision in her heart that she shouldn’t be with Ron romantically any more, she was technically still his girlfriend, and as such, shouldn’t be harbouring any feelings, confused and strange though they were right now, about anyone besides him until she’d broken it off. For one brief second she was seized with the desire to just tell Ron she wanted to break up right then, but she couldn’t do it. It would be too humiliating for him, not to mention herself, and she felt that if she did, Ron would only assume that he’d been right in his insinuation that she’d been cheating on him with his worst enemy, and she didn’t think she could bare that. Tearing her eyes away from the stoic expression Malfoy was wearing, Hermione brushed past the pair of them, Harry trailing her with a troubled look on his face, leaving the rest staring after her as she strode up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower, trying not to cry.

+++

Potter’s open grin froze on his face when he noticed Draco standing there. Initially he might assume that he and Granger’s meeting was only in passing, two students who shared a colourful past happening across each other and stopping to exchange words, cordial or otherwise. Ignorant of the timid repose the two of them were cultivating, Draco was sure that Potter might think to put a halt to the inevitable squabble that would ensue, or, if you were Weasley, egg it on. Potter, having taken in the pots and book in Draco’s arms, and the matching pot in Granger’s, quickly worked out the truth of the matter; that the two of them were working together, and there was no imminent threat of violence. Draco was still shocked to see a grudging understanding fill the boy’s eyes as he displayed a measure of maturity that he’d never cared to apply when it came to Draco, and turned back as if to stall or divert his friends. Draco held no allusions that Potter’s actions were for his benefit; Granger stood unyielding just behind him, rooted to the spot by some fear that Draco still puzzled over. In the way that only good friends could, Granger had somehow silently communicated to Potter a message that he’d understood immediately. Ever the Saviour, Potter tried and failed to change the course of Thomas and Weasley as they shoved and stumbled their way into sight. 

Draco had to spare a moment to wonder at Potter’s protectiveness of Granger. He remembered his first few years at Hogwarts when word had spread that the two of them had a thing for each other. Both denied it vehemently, but now Draco was curious as to if there had been some truth in the rumour. That pairing made more sense than Granger and Weasley did, or it would if Potter wasn’t so obviously smitten with Ginny Weasley. The girl-Weasley had held a candle for Potter since the beginning and Potter, oblivious, hadn’t noticed until some time later. Maybe somewhere in those intermittent years Granger and Potter had tried their hand at being an item. Weasley was obviously the jealous type, though, and Draco couldn’t see the redhead being so comfortable with Potter and Granger hanging out together without his supervision as they so often did if the two of them had dated. Draco was sure the three of them had saved each other countless time, solidifying the bonds between them to near familial strength, but Weasley was still a man and wouldn’t take kindly to anyone, not even his dearest friend, encroaching upon the relationship between he and Granger. Draco’s musings were confirmed when Weasley’s confused expression turned cold and suspicious as his eyes flickered between he and Granger. 

“What’s going on here?” Weasley’s voice was as chilly as the winds outside, his body rigid with tension. 

Draco cursed softly to himself. The Weasley’s were famed for their quick temper, smouldering and ready to light with the slightest provocation, and Draco was sure the night would not end without some injury to his person. Their eyes met, a heated exchange of glares. Draco stuck his chin out, meeting Weasley’s glare without fear. He did not want to brawl with Weasley in front of Granger, knowing that it would hurt her to see the two of them stoop so low as to come to blows, but he wouldn’t back down if Weasley saw fit to challenge him. Draco wouldn’t mind taking the boy down a notch; he needed a reality check much like Corner, but not with Granger present. A small part of him relished the thought of challenging Weasley to a wizard’s duel, but even that thought was tempered by the image of an irate Granger. 

And then an unpleasant thought reared its ugly head, chilling Draco to the bone. It was very possible that Granger actually was not as agreeable to being seen with Draco as she had initially said. Was she ashamed to be caught in his company? It was easy to be brave when there was nothing to contest their acquaintance; Draco was no longer trying to keep their meetings a secret, but he hadn’t been exactly open with how he was spending his evenings either. No one had quite caught on to the fact that the two of them were spending time together. After tonight, though, there would be no denying it. In the face of frank opposition maybe Granger’s conviction was wavering. It stung Draco, a keen, bitter feeling, taking root inside him. 

Granger turned to him, relieving him of the pots he had all but forgotten, her words brisk as she arranged them in her arms. “Thank-you for your help tonight,” she said, and that bitter feeling shook free of Draco just as easily as it had latched on. He was almost dizzy with the abrupt change. 

His expression gentled as he spoke, “My pleasure, Granger.” His eyes flashed over to Weasley, and he smirked as he spoke, “If you have any other questions about fertilization you know where to find me.” 

His words had the desired affect; Weasley’s ears burned red as a ripe tomato. It couldn’t have gone better if Draco had written it out and handed a script to the boy. Weasley took immediate offence. He was so easy to rile, and Draco would have found it more amusing if he wasn’t sure Weasley would take his anger out on Draco’s face in the near future. He tore loose from the Potter, who had gripped him by the cuff of his sleeve as if only a hand would stay the force of his friend’s fury. Granger admonished him, his name sharp as blade, said in that tone. Draco’s brow lifted, a shrug for all that his shoulders didn’t move though he did his best to look cowed. 

Weasley approached them and Draco braced himself, but he was surprised to find that the other boy’s attention was not for him, but for Granger. Draco learned from Weasley’s rising voice that he’d seen less of Granger over the course of the week than he was happy with, and it was with a mild shock colouring his face that he turned to look at Granger. He was barely fazed by Weasley’s implication that Draco wasn’t worth Granger’s time; Draco often felt the same, but he was rather interested that Weasley could be thick enough to hint he thought the two of them were up to no good together. 

Draco had never been involved in a real relationship, he’d been too childish and single-minded to allow for it, but even he knew that one was nothing without trust. That Weasley thought now was the appropriate time to question Granger’s faith, with Draco standing right there, spoke volumes of his lack of tact. If Draco had needed more proof of how odd a couple the pair of them were, this was it. Granger shared his sentiment and the following tirade she unleashed on Weasley was so raw and pained that Draco became distinctly uncomfortable. He shouldn’t be there to witness such a private argument, but Weasley had forced the issue and now had to deal with the consequences. Weasley was first chagrined, then angered anew as Granger yelled at him. The others didn’t seem to notice, so caught up in Granger’s rant they were, but Draco could feel a slight wind swirling around them. It was a clear warning that Granger’s magic was responding to the strength of her emotion, building and spinning as it awaited her command. 

Weasley cut across Granger, his lips drawn back to expose his teeth, eyes tight as he lashed out at her, and Draco had had enough. He did not champion for the continuation of their evidently strained liaison, but Granger was hurting in a way that he couldn’t ignore, not when he felt he could do something about it. He spoke over Weasley when the boy opened his mouth to respond. “Now would probably be a good time hold your tongue, Weasley,” he said lowly, the quiet of his voice slicing through the racket of their argument as if he’d shouted himself. “You wouldn’t want to say anything you’ll regret later…” Weasley faced him, effectively trapping Granger between them, and Draco straightened to his full height. If Weasley struck out at him, Draco would have to be the one to make sure he didn’t hit Granger along the way—since the Gryffindor didn’t seem fussy about who exactly would feel his wrath. 

“…you’ve made it perfectly clear over the years that she’s worth less than the mud on your shoe,” Weasley was saying, his voice pitched dangerously low. 

Draco all but jeered at him. “It would appear these days that I have more respect for Granger’s feelings than you do.” 

Granger, sensing that their exchange would soon disintegrate into something a lot more physical, forced them apart, her hands pushing firmly against their chests. Weasley spluttered, but Granger turned her wand on him—when had she drawn it?—her threat clear, if her words hadn’t done the trick. She spun and aimed the wand at Draco, as if he would be stupid enough to argue with her. He only raised an eyebrow, though he made sure to keep an eye on that wand of hers in case she thought he needed more encouragement to stay silent. “I’m tired,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for opposition. When she called upon Potter, he came forward, startled into action by his sudden involvement. He dutifully helped her with the pots in her arms, his eyes catching Weasley’s with a mix of sympathy and accusation that only he could manage. 

Draco, though, was looking at Granger. She stared over at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. There was turmoil there, words that struggled to free themselves, but that she held at bay. He thought he could make out wariness mingled with a sadness he felt was incongruous with the argument she’d just had. Relationships were hard work, especially one with someone as dim-witted as Weasley, but Draco was sure they would make up in no time. Weasley would apologize in some pathetic, soppy manner, all glimmering puppy-dog eyes and murmured placations, Granger hapless to overlook his blundering attempt at protectiveness. She would take him back and they would continue on, happy as two peas on a pod. 

Draco, face carefully vacant of emotion, only blinked when she looked away, wishing he could comfort her. Boldly, Granger walked between them, Harry not far behind and looking uneasy as he passed. Draco was sure Potter would provide the solace that Granger needed once they reached the safety of their dorms, so he needn’t worry, but it would’ve given him some peace of mind to see to the deed himself. He would be awkward, unused to dealing with the open way Gryffindors showed their emotions, and he would probably make matters worse for Granger, but he would try. Truly it was better that Potter was the one to be there for her. 

“Well, you’ve made a right mess of things, Ron,” Dean said gravely, and stepped forward to place a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder, softening the blow of his words. 

Weasley rubbed at his face with his hands, before he turned to Malfoy, his face hard. “You stay away from her Malfoy,” he said, his finger jabbing at Draco. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’ll have to find someone else to amuse you. Hermione is off limits.” 

Draco smirked, his eyes lidding as he tilted his head to look at Weasley. “I think we should leave that choice to Granger,” he said coolly. “She’s not a child, Weasley, she can think for herself.” 

“You—” Weasley had taken a step forward but stopped, Thomas’s warning hum drawing him back to himself. “The only thing holding me back from beating you to a pulp is Hermione. For some odd reason, she seems to care what happens to you. But mark my words, Malfoy,” Weasley scowled, his freckles bunching together on his cheeks as the skin drew tight. “Hermione won’t always be around to stop me, and when that happens…” he let the sentence trail off. 

Draco’s smirk only widened. “Maybe you should talk to Corner before you go threatening me, Weasley. Did he tell you what happened to him?” 

For a moment Weasley’s simple face drooped with confusion, his mind working to make sense of what Draco said. Finally he settled for a glower, though Draco knew Weasley wouldn’t forget what he’d said. “I’m not Corner,” he retorted, then spat on the floor between them. He threw one last glare Draco’s way before he turned and walked away, Dean at his side and murmuring in his ear. 

Draco watched them go, and when he was sure they wouldn’t come back he allowed himself to slump against the bit of wall next to the doors he and Granger had entered through what felt like ages ago. His shoulders sagged, his head thumping with a welcome jolt of pain against the wall. It helped to dampen the clamour of thoughts in his head and allowed him think clearly. Granger could have easily sided with Weasley. She had little reason to defend her evening with Draco as Weasley had so skillfully reminded her. He could still hear Weasley’s incredulous tone as he said ‘ _Malfoy_ , Hermione?’ as if _he_ were the one that was worth less than mud on a shoe. 

He supposed he deserved that. Weasley was right; Draco had not been kind to Granger in the past. He hardly qualified as the right sort when it came to who was worthy of hanging out with any member of the Golden Trio, but honestly, who did? Short of Dumbledore, who now lay dead and memorialized on Hogwarts Grounds, no one could really say they were as virtuous as those three. Still, she had rallied in his defence. Despite their history, Granger hadn’t allowed Weasley, her friend of many years, her boyfriend, to bully her into abandoning Draco. A warmth enveloped him, soft and buoyant as a feather. For once he felt that this tentative thing between them wasn’t so one-sided. Maybe one day Draco could eventually officially call himself Granger’s friend. He hated that the realization had to come about this way, but he found comfort in it nonetheless. 

“Draco?” 

Draco straightened, recognizing the voice of Sylvia Melville. Sure enough there she was, striding casually toward him, hips swaying in an almost mesmerizing back and forth, her arm looped through a Slytherin girl’s a year below them. “Melville,” he said, schooling his features into an easy smirk. “It’s a bit late to be walking the halls, just the two of you,” he added, his eyebrow quirking up. 

“I could say the same for you.” Sylvia’s smile held a note of mischief as she said, “This is Ebony.” Her head tilted towards the girl beside her. Ebony straightened, her hip cocking out appealingly as she gazed up at Draco through long lashes. She had flawless dark brown skin the colour of a chocolate bar, her black hair braided intricately and pulled back into a ponytail. Draco wanted to roll his eyes at Sylvia’s meddling. She couldn’t have Draco for herself so she thought to set him up with someone who could. 

Draco only stared and Sylvia, unperturbed, stared back so that the silence stretched painfully. Finally, Draco relented, smiling congenially at Ebony. “Nice to meet you, Ebony.” He held out his hand and when she took it her grip was gentle and warm. The contrast of his pale skin and her dark was stark as yin and yang. “Draco. Draco Malfoy,” he added unnecessarily, for she knew exactly who he was. 

“Ebony Fieldright,” she said, her vowels squelched together in a manner that called Headmistress McGonagall to mind. 

“You look awful, dear; what happened to you?” Sylvia exclaimed not unkindly, and Ebony shifted on her feet, her eyes hovering somewhere near Draco’s chest while Sylvia dragged her forward. She reached up and touched Draco’s cheek with cold fingers. 

Draco ignored her question, gathering Sylvia’s concerned hand in his with a gentle squeeze before he dropped it. “Why don’t I accompany you the rest of the way, hmm?” 

Sylvia paused, her eyes giving Draco one last scan before she giggled and bumped shoulders with Ebony, who glanced over at Sylvia. They shared a secret smile. “It would be my pleasure,” Sylvia purred, her eyes twinkling. 

Draco left the two girls talking quietly to each other; Sylvia placating Ebony of her lost opportunity in a voice just loud enough for Draco to hear. He knew he would get an earful next time he and Sylvia met, but Draco simply wasn’t interested in dating at the moment, despite his frequent, and frankly troubling, thoughts of Granger. As cliché as it might be, Draco still had a lot of soul searching to do. He needed to figure out whom he was when he wasn’t fighting to simply survive from one moment to the next. The journey would be harrowing alone, without the pressures of courting another to beguile him. If he and Ebony, or anyone else were meant to be, fate would surely run its course. Draco would live with his only goal to experience what treats life had to offer in mind. 

+++

“Who are you bringing to Hogsmeade this weekend, Draco?” Sylvia asked furtively from where she sat opposite Draco, Blaise sipping at a steaming cup of tea at her side. His dark eyes shone as he waited for Draco to reply, his lips curling up slyly. 

Draco grew wary as yet another unpleasant aspect of his past surged into light. In the past Draco had often made a show of choosing one lucky lady to grace his arm for the jaunt out to Hogsmeade. Much like Blaise, Draco had played his female peers against one another, savouring how they clawed and picked for the chance to have an evening alone with the Prince of Slytherin. The fighting would run the course of the week, Draco feeding the flames by spending time with each of them in full view of anyone who cared to look. Sure their fighting made classes hell for the professors as the girls of Slytherin rigged projects and sniped endlessly, but that hadn’t been something Draco concerned himself with. Now, though, such games turned his stomach. He set down the half finished toast he held and wiped the butter from his fingers with the cloth napkin next to his breakfast plate. 

“I think I’ll go alone this year,” he announced to the table, and Ebony, who was sitting a few people down from Sylvia, slumped over her food, her appetite vanishing as quickly as Draco’s had. “There’s something to be said for just enjoying the outing, isn’t there?” 

Blaise set down his tea, his tone curious and innocent. “Are you sure there isn’t _someone_ you’d like to take with you? Anyone at all?” He glanced pointedly over at the Gryffindor table. 

Draco followed his gaze until he discerned where Granger sat. His eyes didn’t linger though, and he quickly looked back to Blaise. “Do you pretend to know my mind better than me, Blaise?” Draco asked, daring Blaise to speak on what he was alluding to. 

“Surely not,” Blaise denied smoothly, and he looked away, signalling his capitulation. His smirk held firm. 

Draco didn’t like the look on the boy’s face and so couldn’t help needling him. “Why don’t you tell us who _you’re_ taking? I’m sure you have a rather extensive roster of women to choose from.” He picked up his tea and took a careful sip. 

Blaise’s nostrils flared, but that was the only show of his irritation, his smirk never faltering. “It’s obvious by this point, isn’t it?” he said airily, going for evasion rather than relieving Sylvia of her fretting over the matter. 

“I don’t think it is,” Sylvia asserted, her eyes demanding an answer. 

“If you have to wonder, then I think that’s answer enough,” Blaise murmured. Sylvia huffed but didn’t comment further. 

Phil whipped out his pocket watch and flipped it open, the morning rays glinting off the golden lid. “We should be off, classes will start soon,” he said into the ensuing strained silence. He was good at diffusing, Draco noticed, his jovial personality a strong point when things got uneasy. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Draco said, as he set his cup down with finality. He gathered his bag where it sat resting against his calf, and slung it over his shoulder as he stood. To his delight their small group bumped into Granger’s, though she hung at the back of it with Ginny Weasley at her side. “Granger,” he said, when she noticed him close by. “I hope you’re doing well?” Draco hoped Potter had done his job last night and put his long time friend at ease. Though he wouldn’t show it here with the eyes of Slytherins and Gryffindors alike weighing heavy upon them, Draco was concerned for her. He was all too willing to knock some sense into Weasley if that’s what she required, but that was assuming Weasley had any sense about him, and really, such a sentiment would be lost on Weasley coming from Draco. He would see it only as a continuation of their enduring feud. Draco searched her face, but, excluding the slight furrow between her eyebrows, it gave nothing away. She looked as clean faced and bright as ever. Draco knew that it wasn’t only Slytherins who could hide their emotions well, so he didn’t take her outward appearance for much. 

“Fine as could be expected,” she said lightly, her eyes catching on the back of Weasley’s bright red head. He hadn’t noticed Draco yet, and Draco hoped to be gone before he did. “Thank you for asking.” The look she turned on Draco nearly stole his breath from him, it was sincere and gentle, and it was just for him. 

Draco looked away, unable to meet her eyes for fear of revealing how much she affected him. He felt both hot and cold, an unpleasant sensation that made him want to climb free of his skin. “Of course,” he said affably. “Don’t hesitate to summon me if certain _boys_ become unruly.” He smirked cheerfully at her, putting weight on the word as if he thought the distinction needed to be made between a boy and, say, Draco Malfoy. Granger wouldn’t call him, he knew, as she had a host of friends who were far better equipped to comfort her than Draco was, but his intent was genuine all the same. 

His words pulled a diminutive smile from her, and inwardly Draco rejoiced that he had been the one to put it there. “I can handle Ron on my own,” she said firmly, and Draco was reminded of the sparking wand she’d threatened him with last night. He held no doubts that she could. “But thanks, anyway.” 

Nearby he could see that Weasley was a lot more somber than usual, which wasn’t to say that he didn’t carry on with all the racket of a firework in a small room, but he was definitely more subdued than his usual self. Potter was trying his best to make the boy laugh—Draco didn’t think it would take much to amuse such a humble mind as Weasley’s—but when Weasley did laugh, it didn’t hold the same strength as it typically did, bombarding the ears of those around him. Draco couldn’t find a lick of sympathy for him. 

“No problem, Granger,” Draco said, looking back down at her from where he’d been observing Weasley. “I’ll see you later.” He touched her arm briefly before he peeled off to join his friends where they had walked ahead, none too keen on sharing space with Gryffindors. 

“Maybe Granger would like an evening with the old Prince this Hogsmeade, hm?” Blaise said for Draco’s ears only. He leered at Draco. 

“Shove off,” was Draco’s only response, and he ignored Blaise for the remainder of their trip to class, much to Blaise’s amusement. 

+++

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	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen 

Harry said nothing as he trailed her down the hallway, leaving Malfoy, Dean and Ron behind them. He said nothing as Hermione marched up the main staircase, and held his silence while she strode down the corridors that led them in the direction of Gryffindor Tower; but once they were inside the safety of the red and gold draped common room, the figurative silence charm that had hung over her best friend broke. Harry strode past her to set the flower pots he held on one of the scattered work tables some student or other had dragged over into a corner during a study session, or perhaps for a game of exploding snap, then stood with his back to Hermione for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, and under careful control. 

“Don’t bite my head off, Hermione,” Harry began, and Hermione tensed, still feeling the sting of Ron’s accusations and the wave of emotion and humiliation her public argument with him had produced. “But you have to admit that it was…er…unusual to see you and, well, Malfoy together. And not arguing.” 

Harry turned green eyes on her and Hermione met his gaze, still feeling awash in a hundred different feelings. “You’re right, of course,” she acknowledged, coming up beside Harry to set the last pot on the table. “But just because something is unusual doesn’t make it wrong.” 

“But you and Malfoy hate each other!” Harry protested. “Hell, most of Gryffindor hates that prat, not to mention three quarters of the school. Did he con you into doing his homework or something? Don’t let him use you, Hermione; you’re better than that.” 

She could hear the concern in Harry’s voice, mixed with exasperation, and resisted the urge to shout him down for acting like she wasn’t clever enough to know when she was just a pawn in someone else’s game. “Harry James Potter,” she began, fighting her frustration, and was rewarded with a widening of the owner of said name’s eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but were you or were you not the champion of house unity during the war?” Harry frowned at her, looking uncomfortable. She pressed on, ignoring Harry’s muttered “Dumbledore’s idea…” and speaking over him to get her point across while the common room still contained only themselves. “That included Slytherins. And this particular Slytherin—yes, Harry, I’m aware of how he treated all of us in the past, contrary to popular belief these days, I’m not stupid—showed remorse at the end. We all saw it. Ron may be blinded by jealousy, though Merlin knows he ought to know better, but I had thought that you, at least, would understand my attempting friendship.” 

Harry looked at her a long moment and Hermione held his gaze unflinchingly. “Harry, you have to admit that Malfoy is different this year.” 

“He sure seemed the same smarmy git to me downstairs,” Harry muttered in a low voice, though he trailed off at Hermione’s frown, and amended, “but I have to admit that I was surprised his reaction to Ron’s getting in his face wasn’t to immediately curse him.” Hermione had been surprised too, actually. Despite Malfoy’s polite attitude toward herself the past few weeks, and whatever else had passed between them, his relationship with her friends was still frosty. She recalled dimly the way Harry, Ron, and Ginny had all attacked him in Herbology when she’d inhaled the poisonous gas from the mushroom, and wondered if any of them had ever apologized afterwards. Probably not. 

“See,” she insisted, wondering on some level why it was so important to her that Harry and Ron admit this. “He’s different. The war changed us all, Harry,” Hermione added, feeling exhaustion weighing her down like a heavy cloak and longing for the solace of her bedroom. “We’ve all grown up faster than we might have otherwise, especially you. Maybe Malfoy has done some rethinking on his past and is trying to change. And if he is, don’t you think we owe him the grace to try?” 

Harry rubbed a hand over his eyes before glancing toward the portrait hole, his eyes still on the small corridor that led from the hallway outside into the warmth of the Gryffindor common room as he added, “Ron won’t like it.” 

Hermione felt her body pull in several directions at once at the mention of Ron’s name: her heart gave a painful thump in her chest, her shoulders hunched with the shame of Ron’s insinuations, and her lips tightened into a thin line as she suddenly fought back a sob. Avoiding Harry’s eyes, she bit out, “It’s his own loss if he hasn’t grown up any since we started school.” 

“Hermione…” Harry started, but she refused to lift her face to him. When Harry’s feet appeared in front of hers though, she relented. Harry was giving her that careful, searching look that he often did when she and Ron argued about silly things, the one that said he knew them both better than they did, and that they should get over whatever their mundane issues were and just move on. Only tonight the look was more intense, Harry’s emerald green eyes boring into her own soft, brown ones. “What happened tonight, Hermione?” 

He was asking two questions with that single sentence, but she chose to only answer one of them. Turning away and walking toward the fireplace, where a low red glow emitted through the ornate iron grate, the last hints of what must have been a roaring fire an hour or two ago flickering beyond the the outline of a lion moulded into the curling ironwork screen, Hermione glanced back at Harry. “He was being unreasonable,” she said quietly, watching the coals burn white hot and then fade to red-gold as a spent log crumbled to ash over top of them. “He had no right to attack me that way.” She heard Harry move to stand beside her, but didn’t look at him again. Her eyes stung and her throat throbbed around the sob of frustration and sadness she was struggling to hold back. “If he can’t trust me, then I don’t really see the point any more, do you?” Her voice shook, and she took a deep breath to try and regain control of herself. 

“He doesn’t mean it,” Harry began, and Hermione felt herself stiffen. “He just doesn’t want to see you get hurt.” 

“I can’t handle his jealousy any more, Harry. Ron either trusts me or he doesn’t. It shouldn’t matter if I’m doing homework with Malfoy or going into Hogsmeade with…with… Zacharias Smith.” She’d made the example as outrageous as she could, knowing both Harry and Ron couldn’t stand the arrogant Hufflepuff boy, though she knew that he was still far below Malfoy with regards to the boys’ loathing. “If Ron truly wanted me to be his girlfriend then it wouldn’t matter who I was spending time with. If he truly trusted me, like I trust both of you, then he wouldn’t…wouldn’t talk like I’d done something unspeakable,” she finished, feeling her face flush with the memory of Malfoy’s hand on her back by the lake, of the way she could still feel the heat of his body against hers when they’d tangled together on the grass. She hung her head, feeling guilty and ashamed and angry, because she didn’t want to feel that way. Because those things had been accidental, not sought out. And because… there was a tiny flame flickering inside her own heart, that was not unlike the one she was watching fight for life on the end of a charred log in the fireplace, that had sparked that first day in the carriage when Malfoy had caught her when she’d been thrown at him, and had only continued to nurture with every passing day she spent in his company. 

Harry said nothing for a long moment, before she felt the comforting weight of his arm slide around her shoulders, squeezing once, gently, before tugging her against his chest in a hug. She clutched at the front of Harry’s robes, pressing her forehead against his chest and allowing him to hold her, feeling both comforted and heartbroken at his silence. She wanted Harry to tell her what to do to fix this broken thing between them, but he couldn’t do it. He knew she was right. 

“I still love him,” she whispered into Harry’s chest, and felt his arms tense slightly around her. She’d had a slight crush on Harry when both of them were younger, but he’d been too full of angst and anger most of the time, struggling to prove himself at school, not to mention to the greater wizarding world, and she wasn’t sure if he’d ever known. Harry had always simply been there for her, ever since the day he and Ron had rescued her from the troll in the toilets back in their first year. He was her rock in a way that Ron had never been. But the sizzle of romance had never taken root between them. It might have, had Ron not been there, or Cho, or Ginny, or any of the boys Hermione had dated for a host of superfluous reasons while she had been figuring out her heart over the years, but she was grateful now that it had not, because what existed between herself and Harry now was a bond deeper than family, and that was why she confessed herself to him now. “But it isn’t working out.” 

Harry took hold of her shoulders then, and held her away from him so that he could see her face. He would see the seriousness of her decision on it, she knew, and the way it was breaking her heart, and she prayed he wouldn’t tell her to give Ron another chance, as he so often did. Harry held his tongue now, looking at her hard, then nodded grimly in that way boys did when they didn't know what else to say. “You’ll have to tell him soon,” Harry said at last, and Hermione nodded, feeling tears sting her eyes. 

She wanted to cry out the pain of her loss, even though she knew it would be worse once she finally spoke to Ron, but her pain was a private, soul-deep sort, and she wanted to be alone when she finally gave in to it. “I will.” 

With Harry’s promise not to say anything to Ron until after Hermione had spoken with him, and with her promise to do it sooner than later, the two parted ways: Harry to station himself in an armchair to wait for Ron to show up, hopefully in a calmer temper than he’d been in half an hour ago, and Hermione up to her dorm room, where she planned to throw herself on her bed and try to work out how to end the only long-term relationship she’d ever had. 

+++ 

Ginny and Lavender were sitting on Lavender’s bed when she walked into the room. The pair had obviously been gossiping deeply about something because they didn’t notice Hermione when she first walked in; when Lavender caught sight of her, however, she broke off in the middle a sentence and leaped off the bed. 

“Hermione!” the blonde girl cried, startling Hermione so that she spun toward the voice with a cry of her own. Lavender was upon her in moments, grabbing Hermione’s arm and dragging her toward her bed, then pushing her down to sit next to Ginny. The red-haired girl’s face was grimly sympathetic, and something in her hazel eyes told Hermione that she felt sorry for what was about to happen but that she could do nothing to stop it. 

“Uh, yes, Lavender?” Hermione asked hesitantly, really not wanting to have to pretend to care about whatever air-headed drama the other girl wanted to share with her. 

“I heard,” Lavender said dramatically, throwing an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and squinting at her from beneath overly-sympathetic eyebrows. “And really, one can’t blame you. I should know. And Ginny understands, too, don’t you, dear?” Lavender flicked her gaze at Ginny who sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, watching them. “Of course, I really couldn’t see how you put up with him for so long in the first place. You deserve better; I know I did.” 

“What are you talking about, Lavender?” Hermione asked, with an impressive pretence of civility, eyeing her warily. 

“Why your break-up with Ron, naturally!” Lavender exclaimed, looking offended that Hermione was trying to play dumb with such a juicy piece of news. “It was about time, too. New year, new chance at love,” Lavender continued bracingly. “He never deserved you in the first place. You were too clever for him by half.” 

Hermione felt a jolt of shock pulse through her. Break up with Ron? But she’d barely made the decision to do so herself, let alone actually tell Ron about it. How could Lavender already know? Unless… A second, sharper, shock stabbed her heart. Had Ron decided himself that he didn’t want to be with her any more? It had been less than an hour since their argument, but it hadn’t been exactly private; had, humiliated and angry as he’d been, Ron simply announced to the world that it was finished between them and left her to find out through the grapevine? The idea of this hurt more than she’d thought possible, and Hermione found she couldn’t formulate a response. Ginny broke in then, her voice calm and firm, toning down Lavender’s dramatics and pulling both girls’ attention her way. 

“Lavender, as I was just telling you, an argument does not mean that Hermione and Ron are over. And if they did break up, it would be none of your business.” 

Lavender looked between the two girls, her gaze shrewd. “So are you or aren’t you? You can’t have it both ways, Hermione Granger. Either you continue to let Ron act like a first class arse and treat you like you don’t know your own mind, or you cut him lose and find yourself a real man. I could introduce you to a few, if you’d like.” 

“Lavender,” Ginny broke in coolly, as Hermione gaped blankly at this speech. “I’ll be the first one to admit that my brother has all the tact of a rampaging Hippogriff, but I’ll thank you to leave his romantic life to the only one who has any say in it.” She gave Hermione a hard look, that conveyed her perfect understanding of the way Hermione was feeling just then. “As for why Lavender is having overreacting,” Ginny added, with a faint eye roll that only Hermione could see, “it’s because she happened to overhear the pair of you shouting on her way back to the Tower a little while ago.” 

When neither girl demanded to know the fate of the inevitable showdown between Ron and Malfoy however, Hermione wondered just how much Lavender had heard before racing back to Gryffindor Tower to tell the first person she saw her news. Hermione could just see the way Lavender’s eyes must have narrowed with determination once she’d seen Ginny. For surely, the girl must have thought, being Ron’s sister and one of Hermione Granger’s best girl friends, Ginny would know the full story. She’d have been right of course, but Hermione knew that Ginny had far more tact than her brother did, and could keep a secret like the one Hermione had confided in her with utmost confidence. So Hermione deduced that Lavender hadn’t seen Malfoy and herself together, or heard the way he’d told Ron to back off; for surely if she had she’d be asking Hermione a completely different set of questions, far more similar, and just as unwelcome, as Ron’s had been. 

“Ron and I shout at each other all the time,” Hermione said dully, not wanting to relive the events again, but seeing them in her minds eye just the same. 

“Like I said,” Ginny chimed in, sliding off the bed and pulling Hermione up with her. “It’s nothing unusual, Lav, so leave Hermione’s love life alone and worry about your own.” 

Hermione allowed Ginny to maneuver her from Lavender’s clutching fingers and prying eyes, over to her own bed, leaving the other girl to cast them both a scowl and a huff of annoyance as she strode from the room with a low mutter about seeing if Parvati was still awake, as _she_ would listen to Lavender’s views with the respect they deserved. Once the girls were alone in their room, Ginny turned to Hermione with a knowing look. 

“Ron put his foot in it again, didn’t he?” 

Hermione went to her armoire to take out her nightgown, keeping her back to her friend when she answered softly, “It was bad, Ginny. We’ve argued before, and often, as you’ve pointed out, but it was different this time.” She sat on the bed with her nightdress across her lap, fingers fiddling with one of the sleeve cuffs. 

Ginny sat beside her, pausing only to pick her wand up from a side table and flick it at the door with a muttered “ _Muffliato_.” When she turned back and caught Hermione’s raised eyebrow—an automatic reaction whenever Harry or Ron used the spell—Ginny met her gaze unflinching. “I have a feeling that you don’t want anyone else to hear what you’re going to tell me, especially Lavender.” Hermione nodded silently, trying to figure out where to begin. 

In the end, Ginny’s reaction was nearly spot on to Harry’s. “Do it sooner than later, Hermione. Ron has a lot of growing-up to do still, but you owe him that.” Hermione had nodded, promising that she would talk to Ron the next day, and then Ginny added, “Just be careful with Malfoy, Hermione. He fooled us all for a very long time; I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

Hermione frowned at her friend. “He’s not like that any more, Ginny. I just…I can’t say why, exactly, but, he—Malfoy’s changed.” 

“He tried to curse you in Herbology last week,” Ginny said calmly, eyes narrowed. Hermione bristled. 

“It was Malfoy’s spell that saved my life!” she shot back hotly, perhaps _too_ hotly, as Ginny raised her pale red brows at Hermione in surprise. Hermione hurried one, blushing. “I was choking on that gas, Gin, and Malfoy’s charm sent a blast of wind that allowed me to breath just enough to last until Professor Sprout could help me. I heard you all attack him for it, it’s a wonder he didn’t retaliate. That alone should show you how much he’s matured since we last saw him.” 

“Alright, alright!” Ginny said quickly, holding her palms up in front of her in surrender. “We made a mistake. But you have to consider the circumstances. You suddenly grabbed at your throat and then passed out on the floor, and the only one holding a wand was Draco Malfoy. If it had been anyone else down there you would have thought the same thing.” 

Ignoring that point, Hermione pressed on, repeating the reasoning she’d given Harry earlier. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Ginny. No one holds you accountable for the things you did under the influence of Tom Riddle.” Ginny flushed and looked away, and Hermione knew her friend was wavering. “Malfoy was under a far more concentrated dose of evil than the shade you experienced in second year, and there’s far more people who will hold that against him. I’m not blind to the way he treated me, or you, or anyone, in the past, but if he’s trying to move on and be a better person, then I’m going to give him that chance.” 

“Fine,” Ginny muttered at last. “Befriend the dragon, just don’t let him burn you, ok?” 

Hermione knocked her shoulder against Ginny’s with a wan smile. “I’m not a helpless princess in a tower, Gin; I can handle Draco Malfoy.” She wasn’t naive, Hermione knew that she was taking a risk allowing herself to be vulnerable and open with Malfoy; but he was so different when they were alone together that she found herself wanting to see where their new friendship went. 

+++ 

It took some quick wand-work to remove most of the puffiness and redness from her eyes in the morning. After she’d finished her talk with Ginny, Hermione had lain awake for hours, sometimes crying softly, sometimes just staring up at the dark red canopy and curtains that surrounded her four-poster. The result was that by morning she had hardly slept a wink and felt exhausted. But breakfast beckoned and despite how much she wanted to, Hermione knew she couldn’t just skive off classes and hide in her room all day. So, with Ginny at her side, she entered the Great Hall near the end of the meal time, to try to force down a bit of toast and tea. 

Harry had gone down ahead of them, forcing Ron out of the common room when he’d seen Hermione and Ginny coming down the girl’s stairs, but she hadn’t missed the puppy dog look Ron had sent over his shoulder, the one that meant he realized he’d made a mistake, or at least recognized he’d maybe pushed her too far, and was trying to apologize without actually saying the words. Hermione had looked away, and when she’d turned back again both boys were gone. 

The dining hall was crowded and noisy, and many of the conversations had turned excitedly toward the coming Hogsmeade visit. Hermione had been looking forward to the trip herself, now, however, her excitement was tempered by the fact that she’d been supposed to go in with Ron. Speaking of Ron, Hermione could hear his loud raucous laughter in the middle of the long Gryffindor table, though something about it sounded strained, as if he was putting on a show for the crowd, proving just how much their argument last night hadn’t affected him. Lavender and Parvati were sitting unusually close to Ron as well, likely Lavender was hoping to pick up some missed tidbit from their fight last night, choosing not to ignore Ron as she had usually done since breaking up with him herself in sixth year. Ginny chose a seat further down the bench than they normally occupied, tactfully finding space that was a far distance from where her youngest brother sat, and placed herself between Hermione, and Ron’s view, should he care to look over at them. 

The girls had a quiet breakfast, despite the fact that Hermione felt like everyone in the room must have heard about her argument with Ron. Harry had likely spoken to Dean and warned him not to spread any rumours, and Ron was probably in denial that things were even as bad as they really were, but after Lavender’s ambush in her bedroom the previous night, Hermione felt every muffled laugh was directed at her, every whispered conversation someone detailing the scene she and Ron had caused. Still, she put on a brave face and did her best to act like nothing was wrong. Once they’d finished eating, Ginny looped her arm through Hermione’s and walked with her casually through the crowd toward the door. They’d gone halfway up the aisle when the sounds of a group of boys teasing and jostling each other came up behind them. Without turning, Hermione knew it was Ron, Harry, and a few of the boys from their dorm: Dean, of course, and Seamus, judging by the accent of another voice. But a different group of people had caught Hermione’s attention by then, a cluster of students in silver and green accented robes, the tallest among them the aristocratic form of Draco Malfoy. 

As Hermione met Malfoy’s eyes, she found herself giving him a quick once-over to make sure whatever had happened after she’d stormed off hadn’t escalated into a duel, or worse, an all out brawl. He looked perfectly normal to her, and slowed to speak with her a moment as the rest of his friends moved on toward the door. Hermione recognized the easygoing Phil, Sylvia, a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned girl she didn’t know, and, of course, the ever-present Blaise Zabini. Blaise gave her a shrewd look as he passed, walking next to Sylvia, and Hermione looked away quickly. 

“Granger, I hope you’re doing well?” Malfoy presented his question in that strangely formal way he had of speaking with her in public these days, his words careful and polite, as if each word had been mulled over to be sure that no one could find him lacking in its use. He nodded at Ginny, who, Hermione could see out of the corner of her eye, stood stiffly beside her, but managed a nod back. 

“Fine as could be expected,” she returned, pleased that her voice came out pleasant, despite the turmoil inside. Merlin knew what Malfoy thought of their decision to keep their meetings private after last night. Considering Ron’s reaction, she thought that, though they hadn’t been hiding it exactly, they’d been right not to advertise their time together. She’d been able to talk Harry and Ginny into seeing reason—mostly—but Ron was another story entirely. She could feel Malfoy searching her face, and lifted her eyes to his grey ones. Though his posture was straight and his words neutral, she could see concern in his look. He seemed to genuinely care how she was doing, she realized, with a tiny jolt of pleased surprise. He’d probably have asked her more directly about the events of last night, but was likely keeping things light in case Ginny didn’t know. Especially considering Ginny was Ron’s sister. She appreciated both thoughts, and tried to express it wordlessly through the warmth of the look she returned to him. “Thank-you for asking.”

Malfoy’s lips curved into the smirk that so became his face, somehow teasing and gentle when he directed it at her, and such a stark change from the cold sneer he used to loose on her, as he offered his services should need him to teach Ron some manners. She could feel Ginny watching their interaction, which reminded her of their conversation in the dorm, her words to her friend echoing in her mouth and pulling a real smile, though small, from Hermione as she waved off Malfoy’s offer with the declaration that she could mange Ron just fine on her own. For all that Hermione kept telling people this, she was one of the people who most needed convincing. 

After a few more words, Malfoy bid her farewell, reaching out and touching her arm as he passed, sending a flood of warmth both into the spot where his broad palm had briefly rested, and into her cheeks as she flushed with the shock of such a gesture where anyone could see. His touch had been barely a heartbeat long, but the feel of his gentle squeeze remained with Hermione long after Malfoy moved on to rejoin his friends, and she was pulled out of her reverie only when Ginny’s voice murmured in her ear, low enough for only Hermione to hear: “Well you certainly didn’t mention _that_ last night.” 

+++

Potions was more exciting that day than it had ever been before, and that was saying something since Draco enjoyed the class more than any of the others. There was something about the soft popping of bubbles cresting the surface of a viscous potion, the smell of gas as a burner was lit, the hiss as the fire caught and blazed blue and orange. Much like the greenhouses, the potions lab held a certain smell about it that warmed Draco in a way that few things could. But it was none of these sensorial triggers that boosted Draco’s mood that day. No, it was Michael Corner where he sat brooding and hunched over at the back of the class. He held a glass rod in one hand and was stirring it disinterestedly in the brown sludge of his potion. Draco knew for a fact that the potion was supposed to be an iridescent pink colour, his own perfectly brewed potion was testament to that. His friends, the one who had been his second in the duel, and various others, sat nearby looking dejectedly over at him from time to time. Draco had overheard Corner snapping at them when they’d asked after him, and his temper hadn’t improved much since then. It didn’t take long for his friends to realize they’d best ignore him, rather than being chewed out. 

Corner had barely met his eyes when they’d come face to face at the entrance of the supply closet. Draco, gallant as ever, had acknowledged the boy with a simple, “Corner.” To which Corner simply grunted, his shoulders low and his face twisted up. “Something you want to say?” Draco had asked, sounding bored. 

Corner had looked up at him, his eyes flashing between the lank curtain of his hair, but said nothing. He seemed to twitch every few seconds, his movements sharp and suspicious as he glanced around him. Not, Draco realized, unlike a chicken. Corner shoved passed Draco, who was surprised the boy had gall enough to even do that, and went about snatching random things from the supply closet shelves. When his arms were full, mostly with useless items, he stomped past Draco and retreated to his friends, who had been watching the whole encounter and were standing as if to aid Corner if something went down. Draco noted that none of them had come forward, evidence that none of them truly wished to get involved. He chuckled darkly, his smirk widening when Corner’s friends huddled around him, then burst apart when he yelled at them and sat heavily in his chair. 

Draco hummed an off-key tune as he chopped and diced, at which Blaise only shook his head, grinning lazily. At the end of the period they were instructed to decant their potions and submit them for inspection and grading. Draco’s potion was the clearest shade of pink and he placed the glass vial on the rack with a feeling of pride. He sniffed at the vial labeled with Corner’s name, frowning at its dark maroon shade. He was sure to fail this lesson and Draco felt he deserved his bad grade as surely as he had deserved being turned into a chicken. Draco was just exiting the classroom when he felt a hand grasp at his sleeve. Instantly he thought of Weasley, red faced and angry, ready to finally get back at Draco. He spun around, his face arranged in a deep scowl, only to meet the eyes of the current Slytherin Quidditch captain, Gabor Vaisey. He stood an inch or so shorter than Draco, his dark hair cut short as was his usual. He looked determined, his mouth set in a straight line against lightly tanned skin. When he saw the expression on Draco’s face he quickly let go of his sleeve. 

“Malfoy,” he said in his no-nonsense manner, and though he now looked hesitant, he spoke on. “I know you said you wanted to focus on classes this year but,” he glanced around, licking his lips then took a step forward, lowering his voice. “Our team is rubbish this year without you on it. We’ve practically had to build it from the ground up. We _need_ you.” 

Draco’s eyebrows rose, disappearing under the silvery blond strands of his fringe. “I told you Vaisey, I’m not interested—“ 

“Listen,” Vaisey said, cutting Draco off. “Just come by practice tomorrow at seven. See how you feel. You don’t have to join, but maybe you’ll see what I’m working with and take pity?” 

He was almost pleading, something Draco had never seen him do. Instead of immediately refusing as he had been prepared to do, Draco took a moment to consider. He had a lot on his plate this year what with his charm with Granger to work through, not to mention the boatload of work assigned to him from various classes. He didn’t see how he would have time to add Quidditch practice to the lot. He would be stretched thin. Still he found himself acquiescing, to Vaisey’s great relief, and agreed that he would at least come and fly with the team. Beyond that he would have to really put some thought to it. 

“Thanks, Malfoy. It would really take some stress off for the season.” Vaisey said, offering his hand. 

Draco took it and they shook. “I’m not promising anything,” he warned Vaisey, but the boy’s grin did not wane. 

+++

Draco stood at the entrance to the Owlery, his stomach in knots as he looked around the blustery room. Above him, Draco heard the flapping of wings and the hoots of owls swooping in and out of the tall arches. It was a mundane scene, the only thing of interest being the tiny, scattered skeletons of small animals that had fallen prey to the resident owls, but to Draco it was spine-chilling. The height of the Owlery at it’s top was close to that of the Astronomy Tower, the very room Dumbledore had fallen to his death from, and being this high brought back unpleasant memories, cold and stark. Draco remembered that night with stark clarity, remembered the taste of fear thick on his tongue, the way his wand had shaken as he pointed it at the dying Wizard. Draco knew now that he was meant to fail that assignment, but back then he had been ignorant of such knowledge. He’d had the weight of his parent’s lives on his shoulders, the threat of the Dark Lord—Voldemort’s—ire in the forefront of his mind. He could still hear the way Dumbledore had begged Draco not to kill him, had all but persuaded Draco that there was another way, there was salvation waiting for him if he would just lower his wand. And he’d been about to when Severus had stepped in and delivered the killing blow, sending Dumbledore plummeting to the cold, unforgiving ground below. Maybe if Dumbledore had screamed, had done something to defend himself, maybe then Draco would feel some sort of satisfaction at witnessing his demise, but the Wizard had looked almost relieved when Severus had cursed him, and his fall had been silent. 

Draco hadn’t pushed Dumbledore over the edge, but he might as well have. At least, that was what he felt. Dumbledore had been fated to die, whether it be by his hand or someone else’s, but Draco had been the one to orchestrate it all, and in the end the responsibility of Dumbledore’s death felt solely his own. Though he could avoid the Astronomy Tower for now, he would have to face this place at some point during the year, as calling his owl to his window whenever he needed to send out a message would grow old, but to be here now, with the memory as fresh as if it had happened yesterday, was painful. He leaned heavily against the archway, his body shaking as his emotions ran through him. He would not cry, he’d done enough of that over the past year, but he could not deny how terribly this place affected him. 

Breathing in deep, Draco stood straight and strode into the room, his shoes crunching over hay and bones. He held out his arm and his owl swooped down from the rafters, alighting on his arm. He stroked the bird and it trilled softly, butting its hard skull against Draco’s fingers. He fished out his note and strode over to one of the windows. His owl stepped from his arm, its great wings spanning out and flapping as it steadied itself. It allowed Draco to tie the message to its leg and pecked at the small pile of dried crickets Draco had emptied from a bag he’d brought along for a treat. “Deliver this to Granger, and make sure no one else opens it,” Draco said above the whistle of the wind. 

He spared a few more moments to pet his bird before he beat a hasty retreat from the room. As he descended the stairs, Draco shivered, and it was not only as a result of the cold. He’d written out a note requesting Granger’s presence at the library in his usual study spot that night if she could spare a moment. He also said he would understand if she had studying to do; Draco had two essays waiting for his attention if she couldn’t make it. The thought of spending time with her again made Draco smile softly to himself, his mind letting go of the dark thoughts of the Owlrey and replacing them with images of flickering candlelight and dark brown eyes. 

++++ 

“I heard Weasley and Granger broke up,” Sylvia said, and slid a pate of butter over the insides of a fluffy scone she’d broken open. “And I heard that you, Draco, were taking his place.” She took a dainty bite of her food before setting it down on the small plate before her. She chewed, her eyes meeting Draco’s after he’d looked up from the soft-cover book he’d been reading. He was determined to finish “Catcher in the Rye” by J. D. Sallinger, assigned to them in their Muggle Studies class, before the day’s end. Draco was conflicted about how he felt about the main character, Holden, finding him both soppy and relatable depending one which passage he was reading. 

“I hear she and Draco were caught making out in an alcove when Weasley found them,” Blaise put in with a heavy smirk. “Tell me,” Blaise said conspiratorially as he leaned over the table, closer to Draco. “Does Granger wear a bra or is she commando under those robes of hers?” 

Anger rushed in hot waves down Draco’s spine, and before he could think better of it, he was standing, his hand full of a large bunch of Blaise’s robes, hauling the boy to his feet so that his chest knocked over half-full goblets and spilled their contents over the table. The nearby chatter faded to silence. “Watch your filthy mouth, Blaise. I haven’t forgotten what you did last week and I still have half a mind to toss you over the stands as you were so keen to do to Granger that night,” he spat, his usually lax expression pinched tight. 

Blaise laughed nervously. “I was only joking Draco, and I was drunk! I never would have done that otherwise,” he pleaded. 

Draco felt a small sense of satisfaction at seeing the fear in Blaise’s eyes, but his words did little to sooth him. “Drunk or not, you were a right arse, and have been since the start of term.” Not wanting to further cause a scene, Draco released Blaise, but not before shoving him so that he crashed back down onto the bench. Blaise rubbed at his chest where Draco’s knuckles had dug into it, and the look he gave Draco was equal parts fearful and annoyed. Draco sat heavily and wrestled with the blush of embarrassment and anger that threatened to turn his pale face red. Fists clenched, Draco took in several deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. He didn’t want to have a fight with Blaise, but sometimes he just took his teasing too far, and Draco was oddly sensitive when it came to matters of a certain Gryffindor. Everyone was staring at him, none daring to move lest they draw his attention. Draco looked up at Blaise with icy grey eyes, but before he could say more a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. 

“Everything alright here?” It was headmistress McGonagall, and once she had their attention she tucked her hands into the thick folds of her sleeves, reminding Draco of a strict nun. 

“We’re fine, just a misunderstanding, is all,” Phill said brightly, drawing McGonagall’s severe regard his way, for which Draco was thankful. It gave him time to arrange his face into something less threatening. When the Headmistress next looked at him, he had his usual easy smirk in place. 

“Phill is right. Sorry Headmistress, it won’t happen again,” he said contritely. The apology caught McGonagall off guard, that was the only thing Draco could think of for the reason her eyebrows rose as she looked at him. 

“See that it doesn’t,” was her only reply, and she continued her leisurely stroll out of the Great Hall. 

There was a brief lull as everyone took a moment to appreciate just how closely they had all come to a detention over Hogsemeade weekend, then Sylvia piped up. “I don’t mean to anger you further, Draco, honestly I don’t but,” She hesitated and then braced herself to continue. “Maybe there is some truth to what the rumours say?” she asked, and then almost cringed into herself, shoulders hunching as if to ward herself against Draco. 

The sight of her so hesitant to speak her mind softened Draco’s mood; he didn’t want to be the type of friend that others were afraid to speak truth to for fear that he would go off the deep end. “No, there is no truth to that at least.” He sighed and his fingers played with the edge of a cloth napkin, his irritation showing through the way he picked at the firm edge. “Granger and Weasley did have an argument, and it was in a way because of me.” To this, those within earshot perked up. Draco rolled his eyes and smirked at them all before he continued. “I was only helping her with her Herbology project; nothing more salacious that that. And Weasley popped up at the wrong time. He saw us returning together from the grounds. Granger managed to persuade him that nothing happened, but they did have a fall out because of it.” After coming down from the adrenaline of the scene and near fight as a result, guilt had settled down upon Draco at having been the reason the two had argued so strongly with each other. But Granger had been right; how could Weasley expect to control who she did and did not make friends with? The control he wanted over her was stifling and uncomfortable to witness. Draco could only feel pity for Granger having to deal with such a bullheaded counterpart. 

“I may be out of place here saying this,” Phil said carefully, and Draco cut him a sharp look. Phil looked uncertain but he continued in that placid tone of his. “But I thought you hated Granger.” 

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “I no longer wish to hold on to petty grievances. Besides, I really only hated her as a result of hating Potter,” he said mildly. 

Sylvia frowned, her goblet, which was full again after being tipped over by Blaise, halfway to her mouth. “Even so, how could Granger forgive what you’ve done to her?” Phil coughed into his hand, and a few others shifted uneasily in their seats at the reminder of the things that had happened during the war. 

Draco’s frown mirrored hers. “It’s not something we talk about, so I can’t speak on what she thinks,” he said truthfully. “But we were all under a lot of pressure during those times.” He looked at them all in turn and none of them were able to hold his gaze for long. “Granger is a smart woman, I’m sure she’s able to parse out that what happened back then wasn’t fully under my control, or anyone’s control. I don’t pretend that I didn’t have a hand in what happened, that I didn’t make choices I regret, but it was all with thoughts of my parents lives and my own in mind.” That gave the group something to think on and no one said anything for a while. 

Blaise, probably seeing his opportunity to speak his mind in a somewhat receptive atmosphere, spoke up. “I can’t say that I wholeheartedly agree with these new changes you’re making, Draco,” he said with a sincerity that was uncommon for him, and it made Draco actually listen to what he was saying instead of disregarding him as he had originally intended. “Before, you were ruthless and took what you wanted, and now…” He grimaced as if pained. “Now you’re letting people walk all over you. And,” he said, raising his voice over Draco’s protests, “And you’re making friends with Granger and her lot as if anyone would approve of it. If that’s the road you’re taking you’re in for a hard go of it. Weasley is just the tip of the thing, as things go.” 

Draco grunted, his head jerking to the side in frustration. “I’m tired of living my life as others would approve, doing what’s expected of me. I did that for years and see what that has gotten me? My family name is in ruins and none of us can so much as breathe without a herd of Aurors showing up at our door.” 

“To be fair, a lot of that was your father’s doing,” Sylvia said reassuringly, and she reached over to place a hand over Draco’s fist. 

He relaxed his hand and took hers for a brief squeeze before letting it go. “There is also that,” he said with a wane smile at Sylvia. “All the same, I don’t wish to continue in his footsteps. My life is my own. Somehow I survived the war intact and I want to thank whatever deity that allowed it to be so by living it how I choose.” 

“Here, here!” Phil cheered and lifted his goblet into the air. The others followed suit, and although he still felt the passion of his anger roiling just below the surface, Draco raised his own goblet and clanked it against those of his friends in a toast to new beginnings.

+++

Draco closed the book “Catcher in the Rye” and sat back in his chair, digging his fingertips deep into his eye sockets until the gritty feeling dissipated. He blinked a few times and pulled a blank sheet of parchment toward him, the hiss as it slid across the table just another noise blending in with the general susurration of the library. He dated and titled the parchment before beginning a bulleted list of questions he had pertaining to the text. He was working on an assignment for Muggle Studies class. He’d been putting it off, not because he felt any negative way about learning of the ways of Muggle literature, but mainly because he found them and their way of life so confusing. Not only were there the millions of religions and Gods they worshipped, so many that Draco often grew tired just looking at the list, but then there were all the contraptions, the gadgets and gizmos they used as what Draco assumed was a replacement for magic. It was fascinating for the most part, Draco was particularly interested in cars and aeroplanes, though trains he was familiar with as that was the main way one accessed Hogwarts. Their clothing was odd, so uncovered it was almost—what was the word he’d learned? Sacrilege, that was it. Some of the students dressed in Muggle clothes, mostly the half-bloods and those who thought the clothing was ‘cool’ but Draco still found it odd. He couldn’t imagine what he would look like dressed in such a way but he had to admit the idea appealed to him in the way that most ideas did that defied his father’s stuffy beliefs. 

“What a bummer,” Blaise said dismally where he sat next to Draco. 

Draco glanced over at him and continued writing out his questions, lazily asking, “’Bummer’, Blaise?” 

“Yeah, something the Americans say, I think.” Blaise looked over at Phil, who was halfway through his own copy of ‘Catcher’. He set down the book as if relieved to have a distraction from it. 

“I think that’s right.,” he said with an affirmative nod. “Yeah dude, what a bummer!” he said, and then collapsed into what could only be described as giggles. Blaise chuckled along with him, and they entertained themselves for the next few minutes using American slang that was horribly outdated if Draco was any judge. 

Draco’s lip twitched up into a scowl. When he’d finished his dinner and said he was headed off to the library to study, Blaise had all but scarfed down his baked chicken and invited himself along. Not one to miss out on an opportunity to hang with ‘the guys’, Phil had invited himself as well, to Blaise’s happy, “The more the merrier!” Blaise had known exactly what he had been doing, coming along with Draco that evening, and, despite Draco’s pointed hints that he would like to be alone, Blaise had insisted they tag along. If Draco protested too much he would give away his real reason for wanting to go it alone, and give in to Blaise’s increasing suspicions about what Draco was up to in the library. Draco hadn’t gotten a reply from Granger, or, if he had, had missed it before he’d left for dinner that evening, so he was unsure if she would be showing up to meet him. If she had decided to join Draco she would be in for a surprise. 

“Are you sure you two don’t have anything else you’d rather be doing right now?” Draco said, trying half heartedly to shoo them off before Granger arrived. 

“I really have been slacking on my assignments,” Blaise said with a shrug, as he picked up his book. 

“I haven’t,” Phil said buoyantly. “But it never hurts to get another hour of studying in.” 

Draco only rolled his eyes and continued writing, the three of them falling into silence as they worked.

+++

Thank-you for reading! Please review! :) 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Hermione partnered with Ginny in Potions that morning; the assignment wasn’t really partner work, but Hermione set up her cauldron in a far corner of the room where there was only enough space for one other student to work anywhere near her and then all but dragged Ginny over to the table and plunked her down on the remaining wooden stool. Harry had set up shop on the far side of the room, likely with some sort of encouragement on the down low from his girlfriend, and was doing his best to keep Ron in a good mood by joking with him about the absurd complexity of the potion recipe written out on the blackboard at the front of the dimly lit room. Personally Hermione didn’t think the potion looked that complicated, but she knew that Ron was fairly abysmal at potion making in general, and Harry wasn’t much better, having lost his ‘helpful’ textbook to Fiend Fyre a few years back. 

While she worked, carefully mincing ginger root and adding it to her cauldron, she scanned the classroom. Malfoy was working at the far side of the room, kitty-corner to her own table, Phil on the other end of his wooden work station and Blaise and Sylvia working at the table right behind them. A little way along she spotted Michael Corner and a few of his friends, working quietly and talking in low voices, every now and then casting surreptitious looks over at the Slytherin tables. Michael had loudly called out Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express but something seemed to have changed in his attitude recently, Hermione thought, and he seemed back to being a mix of nerves and resentment around the other boy. Seventh year potions held a mixed-house advanced class once a week, where those students who wanted to improve their overall Potions grade could do more complicated work to boost their average. Hermione and Ginny had signed up at once, it had taken some convincing to get Harry and Ron to join the class, but with both of them still setting their sights and ambitions on becoming Aurors, Hermione was able to talk them both into it in the end. 

Hermione carefully sprinkled a pinch of powdered unicorn horn across the gently bubbling surface of her cauldron and stirred in the glittering dust with four smooth counterclockwise turns; her potion immediately shimmered into the proper iridescent pale rose colour indicated on the seventh step of the blackboard’s instructions and she smiled to herself, rubbing the back of a hand across her sweaty forehead and pushing her hair behind her ears with a pleased feeling. This class was mostly self-study, with the lesson’s instructions on the board when they arrived and the professor usually only stopping in near the start or end of the time period. 

The class was relatively uneventful, aside from what looked like a charged exchange between Michael and Malfoy when both boys found themselves trying to enter the supply closet at the same time. Speaking of Malfoy, he barely seemed to look her way throughout the entire lesson, and Hermione wondered if he was upset with her for the events of the previous evening. Sure he’d been cordial enough in the Great Hall, but maybe he was still harbouring some secret anger from the confrontation with Ron, which was partially her fault. She didn’t think Malfoy was that petty though, which almost made her smile as she breathed in the sweet scent of her softly gleaming potion, as not so long ago he would have been exactly that. Why, her association alone with Harry, in their early school years, had been enough to make her a target for constant belittling and jinxes from Malfoy and his cronies. 

She couldn’t figure him out. One minute Malfoy was giving her such a heated stare that she felt as if her heart would beat right out of her chest with the strange intensity of his look, the next he was teasing her in that sarcastic manner of his that was at once gentle and snarky, and made her heart quiver with some unacknowledged emotion; and Merlin help her whenever he touched her. Hermione had long since stopped reacting to Malfoy’s nearness with the instilled fear and anxiety born of years of school hall abuses, which wasn’t to say the emotions didn’t still occur, only that her anxiousness was underscored with the thrill of his closeness, the casual way he seemed to have when he grazed her arm with his fingers or placed his palm against her back. Despite the new and hesitant closeness she was starting to feel toward Malfoy, she didn't have the courage to do the same. When she’d grabbed his hand accidentally by the lake Hermione had nearly bolted back up to the castle in mortification, wondering just what Malfoy had made of her actions. This thought, of course, lead right back the incident by the edge of the forest and—Hermione snipped _that_ reminiscence off at the bud, telling herself the flush on her cheeks was from the heat of the fire beneath her cauldron. 

When class was over Hermione fiddled around with her potions ingredients for a few minutes, fussing with the crystal flask that held her sample for the professor and taking extra care as she packed away her things, all to give Ron ample time to exit the room before she did. She knew she was being a coward, but she just needed some more time to collect her thoughts before she spoke to Ron, and, if she was completely honest with herself, Hermione wanted to hold on to the memory of the sweet way Ron looked at her, all ‘puppy dog eyes’ and earnestness, because she had a horrid feeling that looks she’d receive in the future were going to be a whole lot colder and filled with anger and betrayal. 

+++ 

Lunch passed, as did afternoon classes, and Hermione knew that she couldn’t continue to put off the conversation she needed to have with Ron, so she determined to look for him after dinner that evening; as it was, Ron found her first, waving in a strangely subdued sort of manner from where he’d been sitting on a stone railing, leaning against one of the stone pillars that lined the castle’s central courtyard. The courtyard itself held only a scattering of students, most of whom were crossing to one side or the other on their way some place indoors; Ron, however, looked like he’d all but taken root on the railing, his schoolbag laying forgotten in the growing shadows by his feet. Hermione crossed over to were Ron was holding court, feeling her heart start to beat faster in her chest. As she neared him, Ron offered her an approximation of his usual warm grin, a gesture that both twisted Hermione’s heart and steeled her resolve. 

“Hi,” she said softly, trying for a smile but unable to summon one. Ron’s own smile slipped at her serious expression. 

“I haven’t seen much of you today,” Ron said slowly, pushing off the railing and landing with a muted thump on the gravelly cobblestones. The pair of them were under the covered walkway that ran the gamut of the courtyard next to the castle’s outer wall, alone except for someone’s barn owl that had apparently been resting a few arches down from where Ron had been sitting and now was startled into flight. “How’ve you been?” 

She stared at him, wondering how Ron couldn’t just see the wealth of emotion and internal struggle she felt plainly written all over her face. How _was_ she? She was anxious and scared and confused, and desperate for understanding, heartbroken and yet still in love, and through it all she was clinging to the resolve of the decision she’d made in the cloister of her bed-hangings the previous evening. “Ron…” Hermione started to say, and the expression on Ron’s face tightened. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said quickly, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say and catching at Hermione’s hands, gripping them in his own with a certain desperation. “I am, really. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” 

Hermione allowed Ron to hold her hands briefly before gently withdrawing them. “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed, trailing off into silence and feeling the awkwardness grow between them. Normally when they argued and it was Ron’s fault, he’d apologize in some roundabout way, give her a remorseful look, and she’d cave and give in and tell him it was alright. This time when she looked up into Ron’s blue eyes, wide and earnest and looking relieved, as if she’d already absolved him of any wrong-doings, Hermione pushed down her desire to relent. “Why don’t you trust me, Ron?” The question wasn’t one she’d meant to ask, even though she’d said as much to Harry last night, and it surprised Hermione as much as Ron. He blinked stupidly at her. 

“I trust you!” Ron protested at once, reaching for her again, but Hermione found herself stepping back, away from his touch, and Ron’s hands froze midair, hurt flashing across his face. 

“You don’t,” Hermione said quietly, forcing herself to meet Ron’s eyes even as she felt her anxious fingers knotting together in front of her. She took a deep breath and told herself to speak her heart. “Ron, we’re good friends—” There was another flash in Ron’s eyes, something like surprise and desperation, and maybe even anger, and she knew he was about cut in with some denial that they were much more than that, they were soulmates, or some such nonsense, so she pushed on before he could. “—and friends, let alone two people in a relationship, trust each other to be honest. You have no idea how much it hurt me to have you immediately assume I’d been doing something illicit last night, Ron—no, let me finish.” Ron had opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing and his ears growing redder as his own emotions flared up, and Hermione needed to keep going or she knew she’d burst into tears right there. “Ron, I know you have a history with Draco Malfoy—” 

“A history!” Ron burst out, his entire face darkening to a shade of magenta that would have impressed Vernon Dursley. “Hermione, that git has been nothing but miserable to everyone since the first day we even came to Hogwarts. He’s tried to hand Harry over to You Know Who more times than we can count, insults my family every chance he gets, and— and—” He seemed to struggle for a moment to come up with a chart topper for his speech before settling on: “He let Bellatrix LeStrange torture you in his own house!” 

“Ron, I don’t deny those things are true, well, except for the last part—” Hermione began, striving for patience; she’d known this conversation wasn’t going to go well from the start, and if Ron was already shouting at her then things were only going to get worse before they got better. 

“Don’t tell me it didn’t happen, Hermione Granger,” Ron interrupted furiously, and the intensity on his pale, freckled face was so sudden and overwhelming in its emotion that she almost took another step back. Ron looked like he was caught between yelling louder and actually crying. “I heard you screaming from the cellar.” His voice trembled, then dropped abruptly, and it was nearly a whisper when he continued. “I’ve never heard anything so terrifying in my entire life. You were being hurt and I couldn’t stop it.” 

She hadn’t been about to deny the abuse that she’d suffered under Bellatrix, but she had been about to defend the fact that Malfoy, when she’d caught a glimpse of him during her ordeal, had looked sick at the torture he was being forced to witness. He couldn't have stopped it even if he’d wanted to, and now, having had a chance to get to know him better as a person, Hermione knew that Malfoy would have stepped in if there’d been any way; but there hand’t been, not with a room full of Death Eaters, not to mention is own fanatical parents, standing in his path. Hermione remembered how Ron and Harry had come charging into the room to rescue her. She knew that Ron would have done anything to save her then, and would again now. So how could she make him see that the Draco Malfoy he’d known during the war had grown up, matured into someone that she found herself respecting and enjoying spending time with? 

“Ron, everyone did things during the war that they aren’t proud of,” she said as gently as she could, giving him a meaningful look, meant to remind him of the way he’d jumped ship during their quest for the Horcruxes, and then regretted his actions and come around to the right side later. “It might have taken Malfoy longer than most, but he’s a different person now.” She paused, feeling the significance of those last words weighing heavily upon her heart. “We all are.” 

Ron was staring at her incredulously. “You can’t be serious, Hermione,” he said faintly, and the look in his eyes was pleading, begging her to tell him that this was all some big joke but not to worry because she was done playing now. “It’s _Malfoy_.” 

“Yes, it is,” she confirmed, meeting Ron’s piercing gaze with one of firm resolution. “We’re friends now, come what may. And I hope that you can refrain from attacking him, not to mention me, unjustly in future.” 

“I don’t like it,” Ron said stubbornly, looking mutinous, and reminding Hermione of the way Harry had predicted this exact reaction in the common room only hours earlier. 

“You don’t have to like it, Ronald,” Hermione said softly, though there was a thread of steel in her tone. “Who I choose to spend my time with, as I told you yesterday, isn’t something you control.” She turned to lean against the stone railing, her eyes staring across the greensward; she could feel Ron’s gaze on her back. 

“Fine,” he said after a long pause, though the word sounded bitter in Ron’s mouth. “Be friends with Malfoy, just remember that snakes are poisonous and you’re going to wake up one day to find him wrapped around your throat, his fangs ready to strike.” 

Ron’s reaction was just one of many variations on a theme, and Hermione was sick of it. “There you go again, refusing to let go of your old prejudices!” she snapped, whirling around and glaring up into Ron’s face. His lips were twisted into a sneer as he pondered why anyone who wasn’t already an indoctrinated Slytherin was giving the other boy the time of day. “Ron, if Malfoy is willing to be friends with me, someone he once considered nothing more than a worthless mudblood, then why can’t you give him a chance too?” She couldn’t have known, of course, of the words that Ron and Malfoy had exchanged after she’d left the night before, so Hermione really shouldn’t have been faulted for the look her words brought about on Ron’s face. 

“Because you’re better than him!” Ron shouted, his voice rising in competition with her own. “Hermione, I’m trying to protect you. Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because I’m not stupid, Ron. I can look after myself. That's not your job.” She could feel tears pricking her eyes, anger, agitation, and a deep sense of loss, as she added, “Not anymore.” 

It took several seconds for her words to sink in before Ron seemed to realize what she’d said. “What do you mean by _that_?” he demanded sharply, his flushed face gone suddenly white. 

Hermione blinked back tears, feeling a lump rise in her throat as she searched for the right words. “Ron, I… I just can’t do this any more. We’re not the right fit; you must have noticed it. Two people need to be more compatible than we are for a relationship to work. We fight _all_ the time. Even before we started dating. I will _always_ love you, but I can’t be in this relationship any more. It’s just too hard.” Hermione looked down at her feet as she finished speaking, unable to meet Ron’s eyes. If she had, though, she would have seen shock flash through them, followed in quick succession by hurt, then betrayal, and finally anger. Ron had always been a short fuse, quick to anger and harsh words, even if he regretted it right after; now was no different. 

“Tell me you’re not doing this to me, Hermione,” she heard Ron say in a low voice, dull with confusion and the traces of shock at first, but growing to a twisted snarl as he went on. “You wouldn’t, right? You wouldn’t break up with me to be with… _him_?” 

Those words pulled Hermione out of her despair and heartbreak to gape at her now ex-boyfriend. “W-what?” 

“You and Malfoy,” Ron went on relentlessly, the ugly look on his face twisted with the depth of the betrayal he seemed to feel as keenly as if Hermione had stabbed him. “Something _did_ happen last night, _didn’t it_?” 

She could feel the flush rise in her cheeks as Ron glared at her, guilt and hurt warring within her and making her chest squeeze tight as a vice. Even so, Hermione knew inside that she hadn’t gone to Malfoy seeking a tryst, and all the little looks and touches between them over the last few weeks had been innocent, as much as such things could be. She shouldn't feel guilty, but Ron’s words made each tender moment, each laugh, each accidental touch, feel shameful, and she looked away, trying to hide the fresh tears Ron’s accusations had brought on. She knew he was hurt and angry, and lashing out because he didn’t know how else to process how he was feeling just then, but the words hurt just the same. 

“It won’t matter what I say, will it?” she said shakily, tears choking her as she tried to speak. “You’ve made up your mind about me and nothing I can say will change it.” Ron’s ensuing silence spoke volumes. 

There was a flapping of wings just then, and a large Eagle owl fluttered down to land on the railing next to Hermione just as she was turning away from Ron, to go where she had no idea. Having received messages from Malfoy via his owl before, she recognized the bird at once. Hermione could see a scroll rolled tightly, and secured to the owl’s left leg, as it jostled from foot to foot on the curved stone railing, trying to gain a suitable purchase, and she eyed it nervously, wondering if Ron recognized the owl as well and if she should risk reading whatever it was Malfoy had written to her. 

There was a sound of heavy, scuffing footsteps behind Hermione just then, and she turned to look over her shoulder just in time to see Ron spin on his heel with one last ugly look at her, before stomping away. 

+++ 

The note had been brief and polite as always, Malfoy inviting her to join him in the library if she had time that evening. She supposed he wanted to do more work on his charm, something she had begun to look forward to, as much as for the inspiring work as for the company it provided, but after her fight and subsequent breakup with Ron, Hermione felt guilty even thinking of going to speak with Malfoy. She should just return to the Tower and pretend she’d never received his note, settle in at a table in the common room and finish her Charms essay that was due next week. 

But no, she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in her to be so blatantly rude. She could instead write Malfoy back and politely tell him that she was busy, though that was a lie as well. Hermione gave herself a mental shake, chastising herself for letting Ron’s digs get under her skin. If she didn’t meet with Malfoy now, she would feel like Ron had ‘won’ somehow, like all of his slanderous words were true and she was avoiding Malfoy because there was something wrong with their spending time together, and there wasn’t. So, with a quick stop in a nearby girl’s bathroom to splash water on her face and give herself a quick look over to make sure she didn't look as torn up inside as she felt, Hermione shouldered her book bag and made her way toward the library. 

+++ 

She spotted the novel on the table in front of Malfoy as she neared his preferred study spot: The Catcher in the Rye, and stared at it in surprise. She was reading the same book in her own Muggle Studies class, though Gryffindor partnered Ravenclaw in that lesson so Hermione hadn’t known Malfoy was taking it too. He’d certainly never brought it up, and why would he? As heir to a proud pureblood family, Lucius would never have permitted his son to take such a foolish and useless class; but now, with his father in jail and more freedoms than Hermione was beginning to realize he hadn’t had in the past, despite his blood status and family name, Draco Malfoy appeared to be branching out and allowing himself to try new things. 

Hermione had taken half a step into the alcove where they usually met—was it often enough to be called that, she wondered, and felt a warm sense of pleasure at the familiarity of the scene—some sort of witty remark about catching Malfoy out with a muggle novel on her lips, before she realized Malfoy wasn’t alone at the table, two other boys sat opposite him. Phil, upright and studious, was turning the page of a thick textbook, carefully copying something from one of its pages onto his parchment, and Blaise, sprawled in his chair as carelessly arrogant as Sirius Black once was. 

“Oh!” The word was a soft squeak of surprise as Hermione drew up short, wondering if she’d misunderstood Malfoy’s message earlier and come to meet him at the wrong time or on the wrong day, but it drew the attention of all three boys nonetheless. Phil looked up from his parchment, his expression one of polite curiosity; Blaise’s eyebrows rose, and he took no trouble to hide the smirk tipping his lips up as he glanced between her and Malfoy; and the boy she’d come to see, well, he was staring at her with an expression resembling something like horror mixed with resignation. “Um, hello.” 

“Hello,” Phil replied brightly, giving her a friendly smile. Hermione decided Phil reminded her of Remus in some ways, even if he was a Slytherin. She didn’t know him well, but he was always respectful in classes and seemed to have a knack for defusing tense situations. She hoped he’d do something now. 

“Granger,” Blaise drawled, chasing the greeting with a meaningful look at Malfoy before turning the full force of his gaze on her. “Fancy meeting you here. Need something?” 

Hermione’s finger was tugging at a curl of her long wavy hair almost before Blaise finished speaking. She felt suddenly tongue-tied and searched desperately for something that was devastatingly clever to say in reply, though nothing came to mind. If it had been only Malfoy and Phil studying together she might have managed to make some sort of polite conversation and then excused herself, but with Blaise Zabini staring her down Hermione forced her hand down from her hair, planted her feet, and met his challenging gaze with one of her own. 

“I, um,” Despite her mental determination, Hermione still didn’t know what to say to this unexpected study group, and tried to stall for time as she squared her shoulders, striving to look haughty and not as if the mere presence of Blaise made her uncomfortable. “I needed to talk to Malfoy.” 

Blaise looked as if he was greatly enjoying her unease as he bobbed his head in the direction of the still silent blond boy seated at the other side of the table. “As luck would have it, Granger, the Prince of Slytherin is receiving visitors. Go ahead, make your request.” Said ‘prince’ looked annoyed at Blaise’s teasing, but before either he, or Hermione, could say anything, Blaise made a great show of coming to a sudden realization. “Oh, was this supposed to be a _private_ audience?” He glanced over at Malfoy with look of mock contriteness as he stage-whispered, “Do you two want to be alone?” 

Whatever had been holding him back until now, finally loosed its hold on Malfoy’s tongue and he turned a dark look on his friend. “Shut up, Zabini.” Blaise met this look with one of defiant challenge, though he said nothing else, and a near-tangible spark crackled in the air between both boys. 

“Uh, if you and Draco had plans, we can go,” came Phil’s voice from the far side of the table, and all eyes turned to him. He wasn’t cowed by the look Blaise shot him, a clear if silent admonishment at him, a Slytherin, giving ground to a Gryffindor, and Hermione found her respect for Malfoy’s new friend growing. “We’ve been bothering Draco long enough, what with Blaise’s constant moaning about homework,” Phil smirked faintly at Blaise and the other boy glared back, “and he’s made it clear he needs to finish his book before tomorrow.” 

“That’s not necessary,” Hermione said hurriedly, casting a quick look at the two boys in question even as she gave Phil a strained smile of thanks for his offer. “I didn’t realize Malfoy was busy, I don’t want to intrude.” 

“Oh, you’re not intruding,” Phil said amiably. “We’d be happy to have you join us.” Whether he’d said such a thing because he actually thought it was true, or only because he had better manners than the average Slytherin, Hermione didn’t know, but now all eyes were back on her and she felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment. 

She turned to look at Malfoy for guidance, wondering if he would rather she stay or go. Hermione had been looking forward to working on Malfoy’s charm before she’d found out their work session had become a public one, and now she hesitated to bring it up, in case Malfoy didn’t want to share his work this early in the game, or at all, with the other boys. There was an empty chair on Malfoy’s right, next to the floor-length window and opposite the pleasant-faced Phil, and Hermione glanced at it uncertainly. 

Malfoy was watching her, his expression calculating, as if he was trying to figure out whether he wanted to find some way to get her to leave, or if he dared risk allowing her to stay. His own manners kicked in then, and he pushed his chair back, standing abruptly and moving to pull out the chair she’d been eyeing. “If you can handle these chuckleheads, you’re welcome to work with us,” he said dryly, ignoring the raised eyebrow Blaise gave him as he held her chair, just as much as the faintly knowing grin that was playing about the slightly plump face of Phil. 

Feeling much as if she were walking weaponless into a den of lions, Hermione made her way around the table and sat down, setting her bag in front of her and looking down at it so she wouldn’t have to meet the searing stare she could feel coming from Blaise. Malfoy pushed her chair in and returned to his own, and then silence dropped over the group like a shroud.

+++

Draco heard her before he saw her, the light steps of shoes on the worn, ornate runner that spanned the length of the isles between bookshelves. He continued to write, surreptitiously glancing at the other two to see if they had heard as well, but Blaise was flipping aimlessly through his book and Phil was frowning in concentration as he chewed on his bottom lip, apparently wrapped up in his text. From the corner of his eye, Draco watched as Granger came to an abrupt halt. A moment passed before she made her presence known, a soft, surprised noise that caused the other two to turn and see who it was that had come upon them. Draco looked up from his book, his stomach clenching as he braced himself for what was to follow. 

Briefly Draco wished he’d made more of an effort to warn Granger of what she would be walking into, maybe he should have excused himself when he’d realized Blaise and Phil meant to stay the course and sent another owl to her, but the chances of his owl intercepting her in time were slim. He could only imagine what Blaise would think if he saw Draco’s owl landing on the ledge of the window with a message for Granger. No doubt he’d take it upon himself to read it aloud to the group before Granger could get to it. Granger was true to her house in that she possessed infinite amounts of bravery, that she stood there now instead of turning tail and running immediately upon seeing just who accompanied Draco was proof of that. He stayed quiet even though it was obvious Blaise was making her uncomfortable. Draco knew that if he rose to her defence now, when all they were doing was talking, Blaise would see Draco’s protectiveness and become inspired to be even more tiresome than usual. 

Blaise, throwing a slanted look at Draco, spoke first, to which Granger somewhat awkwardly stated her business. Blaise was in his element pretending to be both oblivious and apologetic, and Draco could feel the first signs of a tension headache blossoming at the base of his skull. At Blaise’s whispers, Draco saw his chance to intervene. “Shut up, Zabini,” Draco said with a look that could cut through diamonds, but Blaise’s confidence, earlier tempered by their interaction that morning, seemed to have returned, for he met Draco’s eyes unblinking. Draco quirked an eyebrow, but Blaise said no more. To anyone else Blaise’s silence might seem a simple thing, but to Draco it spoke loud and clear. The other boy knew that he was on thin ice and it would take little to send Draco off again. His feet shuffled with the effort it took not to kick Blaise under the table. Phil rose to the occasion, offering to leave so that Draco and Granger could talk in peace but Granger was much more wise to the ways of Slytherins than Draco would have initially guessed, seeing that her concession would be admitting she was uncomfortable, allowing for a small victory of sorts for Blaise. Merlin, but Slytherin politics would drive him mad at this rate. 

Refusing Phil’s offer left Granger standing uneasily where she’d entered, unsure of where to go next. Draco watched her through slanted eyes, pleased that she’d held her own against Blaise and, though somewhat inadvertently, against Phil. He stood then, accepting Granger’s decision, and pulled out the chair she had been eyeing uncertainly and she sat in it gracefully, her hair falling about her shoulders as she stared down at her bag. Over her head Draco and Blaise exchanged a heated look and Draco warned the boy without speaking to mind his p’s and q’s if he knew what was best for him. Phil, for his part, only smiled gently at Draco and the look made Draco want to punch him, filled as it was with a soft, knowing sort of gaze. Draco took his seat again and when he was settled down, the dull ache in his head grew sharp. Blaise looked between the two of them, his lips pulled up at one corner in an idle smirk. 

Granger was stiff as wood next to him, and Draco knew it would take some coaxing before she loosened up, if she ever did with those two looking on. He felt decidedly unhappy, but he wouldn’t let Blaise and Phil ruin an evening with Granger. 

“I have to say,” Blaise said into the heavy quiet in which no one seemed inclined to move as if held by some unseen force, “that when I imagined what it was Draco was doing when he disappeared each evening, it wasn’t this.” He gestured at Draco and Granger his tone curious, yet tinged with a covert note of disappointment. 

Draco thought about explaining his Charm to the two of them and all of the work that had been accomplished by he and Granger, but some part of him wanted to keep it a secret. The Charm was the one thing that was just for Draco and Granger alone. The thought of inadvertently inviting Phil and Blaise to become part of it by telling them the details displeased Draco. He knew Blaise would pervert the process by doing what he did best; teasing and bullying them until what small pleasure there was to be gained by embarking on this journey was wrung out. Draco could see it now; Blaise would do his level best to make Granger feel uncomfortable and defensive, overshadowing the goal of completing the charm (which would no doubt improve the wizarding world for the better and boost Draco’s—and Granger’s, though she didn’t need it—standing). He said nothing of it, instead taking on a bored drawl as he replied. 

“I’m sorry if studying bores you senseless, though it has to be said you have little sense to begin with,” Draco said, and though his tone was light he saw the words struck true as Blaise leaned back in his chair, his eye twitching as he smirked over at Draco. “This is a library,” he continued, looking around to punctuate his meaning. “So it stands to reason that we study.” 

Blaise rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Is that what you do here? I thought it was just another dark place to snog in,” he said with weak sarcasm and Draco knew Blaise was already growing bored with the effort it was taking to rile him. 

“And risk Pince skinning you alive when she finds you? Why bother?” Draco said dismissively, and wrote out another question on his parchment. 

“Some people find the risk thrilling,” Blaise said with a shrug. “But you always were rather boring when it came to that sort of thing. Or so I’ve heard.” 

“Heard a lot have you?” Draco shot back. 

Blaise chuckled. “There’s a lot to hear.” He glanced over at Granger to see if she had been paying attention. 

“I believe it’s time we take our leave, ” Phil said warily, his eyes jumping between Draco and Blaise. 

“Ahh, but I was having fun!” Blaise whined, but, to Draco’s immense relief, shoved back his chair and flicked his wand so that his bag filled with his things. The bag’s opening yawned wide and devoured a quill, book and parchments with relish, the small leather buckle flopping out and running along the rim like a tongue before it snapped itself closed. 

“Blaise, if you have any more _fun_ the library is not liable to survive the damage,” Phil said plainly, and Blaise’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head for a moment before he regained himself. 

Instead of taking offence, Blaise smirked, and when he spoke he sounded vaguely impressed. “I was beginning to think the sorting hat put you in the wrong house.” He stood and grabbed his bag, then slung an arm over Phil’s shoulder. “There’s hope for you yet.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at Draco through slanted eyes. “The same cannot be said for others.” 

“Well, now…” Phil said as the two of them left the alcove, their voices fading as they moved along. 

Draco would have to send something nice to Phil before the week was up; he was a gem hidden beneath layers of dull rock. Arguing with Phil was like arguing with an innocent younger brother: you could do it—but you’d look like an arse for it. He was kind, more kind than Draco thought possible, having been sorted into Slytherin, but he was beginning to realize that Phil’s cunning lay more in diversion than verbal sparring. He would make a great politician if he honed his skills a little more. Maybe his unassuming nature was part of the guise he used. Certainly he had insinuated himself between Draco and Blaise with an ease that most had failed to accomplish. 

Draco knew that if Blaise had remained a second longer he would have embarrassed himself in front of Granger. The tension between them was growing out of hand and Draco would need to handle it soon if he didn’t want to lose Blaise as a friend. An ever growing part of him wanted to let that friendship go, as it seemed Blaise was intent on alienating Draco until nothing remained between them but animosity, but another part of him saw Blaise’s actions for what they were: Blaise was not yet ready to move on as the rest of the world had done. He was stuck in his old ways. It would be easy to let Blaise destroy himself in the process of holding on to his beliefs, but Draco found that he didn’t want to do what everyone else had done with the Slytherins, he did not want to abandon them to the unforgiving tidal wave of the new way of thinking, to get swept along, tumbled and deposited, gasping for help, at the shores of civilization. 

Blaise needed Draco to be his voice of reason, to be a role model for the reformed pureblood. The two of them had been through a lot together, not the least of which had been surviving the encroaching tyranny of the megalomaniac that was Tom Riddle. Draco had had it the worst, which was probably why he was the most changed among them, but what was a lesson learned if not a lesson shared? What good was what Draco had come to realize about the wrongness of the misguided philosophy he’d been raised to believe in if he didn’t spread that knowledge to those who had yet to learn it? He was sure Granger questioned his loyalty to Blaise when the other boy was so obviously a hindrance to his progress, but loyalty was not solely a Gryffindor trait. Draco remembered hearing only briefly of Weasley’s abandonment of Granger and Potter when they were out doing Merlin knew what to bring down Voldemort, and yet still they had welcomed him back. Blaise’s transgressions seemed minute in comparison and he had only to be persuaded in the right direction covertly, yet without deferment. 

Draco watched the two go with these thoughts whirling through his mind, feeling gratitude and the weight of a cumbersome responsibility heavy on his shoulders. He looked at Granger with an apology in his eyes, barely registering the loosening of his shoulders as the tension seeped from him. “Sorry about that. They invited themselves along when I said I would be doing a bit of studying after dinner. I believe Blaise saw through my excuse and ascertained that I would be meeting with you,” he said with a shrug. Draco could see how the opportunity to bare witness to such an evening would be too sweet for Blaise to pass up. He just wished Blaise could see that his friendship with Granger was nothing more than that. Draco was no longer the conniving little twit he had once been. His intentions were honest, despite what his friend might think. Well, honest enough. He refused to entertain the odd feelings that surfaced whenever he touched Granger, or looked at her, or was simply near her. 

Granger, who had looked up from her bag as the two had left, turned to him with a small quirk to her lips, almost a smile but not quite. “It’s fine,” she said lightly, setting her bag on the table. “It was just unexpected. I don’t think I mind having Phil along. He seems like a nice guy.” She left unsaid her opinion of Blaise, though that was obvious. 

“He’s nice enough,” Draco said offhandedly, a surprising spike of… _something…_ stabbing at him at the thought that Granger found Phil amiable. He didn’t take time to dwell on that feeling. He let a beat pass before he looked up at her again from where his eyes had wandered just shy of her face. “Did you really have something you wanted to talk to me about? Or was that just an excuse to get those two to leave?” Maybe she wanted to vent a little about Weasley, for which Draco had been prepared for as their argument was still rather fresh. He’d lent a listening ear plenty of times to Pansy in the past when she’d had complaints of one partner or another before they had started dating, and of course Draco used the term ‘dating’ loosely, as neither of them had been particularly monogamous during their stint together. He had some experience consoling his friends, but being Slytherins, emotions weren’t quite something they shared with each other without first establishing that the other could be trusted, and even then the information they exchanged was limited. In a lot of ways Draco’s friendship with Granger was new. He knew that her expectations of a friend were different than what Draco had come to associate with the relationship. In this he was still learning, but was willing to explore that aspect. 

Draco couldn’t imagine what Granger’s friends thought of her defending him. They must have all thought she’d gone ‘round the bend, or at least that Draco had cursed her, or slipped something into her drink without her knowledge. He thought back to the way Potter had tried to distract his friends from coming upon them yesterday and had to allow room for the theory that possibly they wouldn’t jump to conclusions about how exactly Draco and Granger had come to such an impasse. Surely they knew Granger better than Draco, and would know that she wasn’t jumping into things blindly. Barley more than a week had passed anyway, and who was to say that this all wouldn’t end disaster? Draco hoped that it wouldn’t, there was real potential for he and Granger to accomplish great things if that was in their cards, but only time would tell. 

+++

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	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Hermione did not miss the piercing look Blaise shot her as he bantered with Malfoy, if she could call it bantering; it was more like Blaise was baiting his friend on purpose. He’d looked straight at her when he’d brought up his personal use for the dark corners of the Hogwarts library, and Hermione had felt herself flush. It wasn’t that she was a prude exactly, she’d been dating Ron for a many months and he’d wanted to do many things that didn’t involve studying when they were together—though Hermione hadn’t let him do a lot of them, nor was she innocent to the fact that many students, likely including Draco Malfoy, as much as he might deny it, did in fact risk the librarian’s wrath by holing up in private alcoves in the evenings. But Blaise’s pointed looks and conversation seemed designed to make sure Hermione knew that she wasn’t special to Malfoy in that particular way, even if they had been sneaking a snog in the candlelight. Which they hadn’t. And why should she care if Malfoy did do so anyway? He had every right to a personal life and she had a boyfriend. 

Or rather, she _did_ have a boyfriend. Up until half an hour ago. Hermione wondered what Blaise would have to say about that once the news spread to the general populace of the school. The whole idea of being split up from Ron was still so fresh for Hermione that it hadn’t really sunk in just yet. 

Thankfully, Phil—bless his keen sense of coming disaster, or possibly just his Slytherin sense of self-preservation—decided that it was time to herd Blaise away. She watched the two boys exit the alcove, leaving Hermione and Malfoy sitting side by side in silence, before she glanced over at Malfoy from the corner of her eye, seeing him from a new perspective. His dry sense of human and razor wit would appeal to the girls from Slytherin, Hermione knew, and he was tall and athletic and attractive, all points she couldn’t deny. Of course he would have had plenty of opportunities to hook up with the girls from his house. Like Blaise had said earlier, Draco Malfoy was a prince of Slytherin house, so it was only to be expected that he’d have had his pick of courtiers to choose from. The thought twisted Hermione’s stomach in a strange way. 

Malfoy turned then, catching her staring at him but not seeming to care. He started apologizing for his friends’ intrusion and Hermione found that she hadn’t really minded their presence. Well, Phil’s anyway. Blaise continued to make her skin crawl, and she was privately glad that the other two boys had been there to buffer her interaction with him. Blaise had a way of making Hermione feel small and defenceless with a single look, and she hated him for it. It was the way Malfoy used to make her feel, and she didn't like being reminded of the old him. In fact, Malfoy's continued friendship with Blaise Zabini concerned Hermione. How much could Draco really have changed if he still found Blaise a worthy friend? Well, at least he’d opened his circle to the likes of Phil, the other boy seemed to have been a good influence on Malfoy. 

“Did you really have something you wanted to talk to me about? Or was that just an excuse to get those two to leave?” 

Hermione blinked at this question. Malfoy was looking at her curiously, waiting for an answer, but she wasn’t sure what to say. In truth, she had only said that earlier because she’d been caught so off guard by the presence of a full set of Slytherin boys where she’d only been expecting one, and said the first thing that had come to mind to explain her unusual presence there. But that hadn’t been the reason she’d sought Malfoy out, he’d been the one to invite her to join him in the first place. She felt silly to bring that up though, maybe he’d forgotten she was supposed meet him until he’d seen her arrive. 

“Oh, um, n-not really,” she mumbled, looking down at her lap. Could she tell him about Ron? Would he laugh and mock her for dating the youngest Weasley son in the first place? Tell her he’d always known the relationship would end in disaster? After all, despite Malfoy’s growing friendship with Hermione, there was no love lost between him and Ron Weasley. That had been evidenced in their argument the previous evening. And—oh Merlin! What would Ron do the next time he saw Malfoy? Let alone if she and Malfoy were together at the time? If wands weren’t drawn, fists would be, at the very least. Why couldn’t Ron just get over himself? Everyone had done things they weren’t proud of in the past, Hermione had managed to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, why couldn’t Ron stop judging him, let alone her, for doing so? 

Silence stretched between them for a time, weighing down on Hermione. She felt exhausted by the day’s events, longing for a time when things were simpler and the only thing she’d had to worry about was helping Harry defeat Voldemort. This ridiculous thought might have made Hermione smile if her throat hadn’t suddenly squeezed tight against a rising lump of anguish. Ron was lost to her now. Ginny had vowed her sisterhood to Hermione, of course, but Harry would have to console Ron first, so she couldn’t speak with him about the way her heart was cracking inside her chest. And though Lavender and Parvati might squeal in shock and sympathy, and then offer up hordes of advice on the subject of bad boys and how to handle them, Hermione couldn’t talk to them either. And she couldn’t tell Malfoy, Hermione realized. What would he think of her? Would he think she’d done it because of him? Or worse, _for_ him? 

Blaise had made it clear that Malfoy was no monk, and that if she had had any ideas that his intentions for her were anything but passing she should get her head out of the clouds, and that reminder caused Hermione’s cheeks to flush deeper as she tried to keep her tears at bay. Sure she’d entered into this friendship wary and uneasy, but her feelings had been slowly changing over the past two weeks. If Malfoy spurned her now, or worse, mocked her, she didn't think she’d be able to take it. She’d barely allowed the idea to cross the deepest reaches of her heart, let alone said aloud the notion that she was attracted to the cooly sarcastic Slytherin. 

Her vision blurred then, and Hermione felt her breath catch as she tried to swallow back a rising sob. Across from her, she could see the way that Malfoy’s own tired and annoyed expression abruptly cleared, his grey eyes rounding in surprise as if she’d startled him somehow. Turning away, Hermione pulled in several shaky breaths as she tried to get her emotions under control. “I—I’m sorry. I need to go.” She blinked hard, fumbling for her bag and standing abruptly, the legs of her chair creaking in protest as Hermione shoved it away from the table and stood. Malfoy stood too, concern pulling at his features as he took a step back when she tried to push past him. 

“Granger? What’s wrong?” 

Hermione ignored him, feeling hot tears blink past her lashes and slide down her cheeks. Pity might hurt worse than jeers, coming from Malfoy, she thought, trying to hold back the scream of pain that was ripping a hole in her heart where the safe, tender feeling of Ron’s devotion had once been. Fingers closed around her elbow then, jerking her to a stop, and Hermione stumbled, spinning around to face Malfoy with a curse on her lips. Not that the words would do anything without a wand in her hand, but she was ashamed and embarrassed that he was seeing her break down like this, and just then she would have done almost anything to make him let her go. 

“Granger!” Her name was sharp on Malfoy’s tongue, but he let go of her arm so Hermione bit her lip and held her silence, feeling her eyebrows push hard together as she fought not to cry, and lost, feeling a fresh wave of tears flow down her cheeks as she forced herself to meet Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy looked confused and a little worried as he looked down at her, peering at her pink cheeks and tear-bright eyes. “What happened? I’m sorry about Blaise. The guy is an arse and would run his mouth off a cliff if no one stopped him. Maybe I should let him do that one day soon,” he mused wryly, but sobered almost at once. “Do you need me to get someone? Potter? Or Weasley?” His expression tightened as he made the offer, and Hermione knew he was thinking back to the night before. Still, in any other circumstance she would have appreciated the gesture. Just then, however, simply hearing Ron’s name was like a hot poker to her soul. 

“No!” she burst out, terrified to face Ron so soon after their breakup. He wouldn’t want to talk to her anyway, especially if Malfoy was the one to seek him out. Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking taken aback at her vehement denial, and Hermione tried to soften her tone. “Not Ron. I—I’m sorry. I don’t think I can study tonight. I’m not feeling well.” 

Malfoy was frowning at her, probably wondering why girls were so insane and why he was bothering with the one in front of him. Slytherin girls were probably made of sterner stuff. “Let me walk you back the Tower then,” he offered, reaching for his own bag and casting her a sidelong look as he did so. “I could get one of the house elves to send you some soup or something.” 

The fact that Malfoy was acting so kindly only made Hermione feel worse. Her lie had been painfully see-through, but she hadn’t known what else to say to excuse herself. Still, if she let him walk her back and they ran into Ron, or really any Gryffindors, they’d see her crying and assume it was because of him, and Hermione didn’t want to cause Malfoy any more trouble when it was her fault things had ended up this way in the first place. She took another step back, fighting the urge to either sink to the floor, or throw herself into Malfoy’s arms, as the sob in her chest fought to break free. She didn’t know which would be more humiliating. 

“No, please, I—I’m sorry.” Then she turned and fled. Malfoy might come to the library often enough that even Madam Pince knew his favourite study spot, but nobody knew the twisting aisles and dark corners of the Hogwarts Library better than Hermione Granger. She thought she heard Malfoy start after her, but he either thought better of his actions or she was simply too quick to follow, because Hermione soon found herself on the far side of the cavernous room, alone, as she dried her eyes on the sleeve of her robes, the harsh sound of her breathing loud in the muffling silence of towering rows of books. 

Slowly, Hermione lowered herself to the floor, settling herself on top of the worn Persian runner that span the length of the long aisle and raising a small cloud of dust when her body hit the carpet. The aisle she’d stopped in was tucked away in a far corner, full of books most people would find boring, such as “Potions  & Produce: the long-awaited sequel to ‘Charm Your Own Cheese’”. Hermione stared blankly at the rows of dusty book spines lining the shelves opposite her, unmoving for a long moment before she registered the fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. There was a searing, white-hot pain lancing across her chest, and her hands fumbled blindly with her robes, clutching them with white-knuckled ferocity as Hermione felt the last of her restraint crumble. There was a reason it was called a ‘broken heart’, her mind murmured through the roar of her anguish, you really feel like you might die from the pain of having something so sure and certain clawed from within you with an abruptness as sudden as a striking snake. Body trembling with grief, Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and pressed her face onto her folded arms as she sobbed. 

She wept for the loss of her first love, for the broken trust of a long and deep-rooted friendship, and for the confusion and suppressed feelings whirling hidden inside her heart. She cried until there were no more tears, and the only thing she could feel inside her was the dull, hollow ache of loneliness. Hermione hadn’t felt lonely since her first year at Hogwarts when she’d overheard Ron telling Harry that she was a ‘nightmare’ and it was ‘no wonder she didn’t have any friends’. She knew she had friends still, but all her friendships were intertwined, and she knew that her breakup with Ron would affect everyone; her most of all. 

+++ 

It was past curfew when Hermione left the library to return to Gryffindor Tower. She walked slowly, eyes unfocused and downcast, watching her feet shuffle along the stone floor as heavily as if chained to blocks of concrete. She took secret passages when she could, trying to remember which tapestries Harry had shared with her from his frequent uses of the Marauder ’s Map, anything to help her avoid people. Idly, she wondered what Malfoy had done after her meltdown a few hours ago. She’d stayed in her dark corner, sitting silently, long after her sobs had eased and a tiredness so heavy that she’d curled up on the floor and fallen asleep had washed over her. She’d missed Madam Pince’s magically magnified announcement that the library was closed for the night, and had somehow also escaped the notice of Peeves or any of the other ghosts who occasionally haunted the library after hours. Sir Nicholas was particularly partial to floating about and reading any book that had been left open and abandoned on one of the study tables, as he couldn’t pick up and peruse any novel of his own choice. 

“Bookworm,” Hermione said softly, when at last she came upon the portrait of the Fat Lady outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. The large woman in her voluminous pink ballgown had been watching Hermione’s approach with a stern and disapproving eye as she’d drawn closer to her picture frame, looking as though she’d been working up to a good scolding, ready to let loose as soon as whichever stray Gryffindor student it was got close enough to hear it. 

“I’ll say you are,” the Fat Lady began hotly. “Planned to spend all night in the library, or pretending to do so, as you young people do these days—” Hermione must have looked particularly forlorn, however, as the Fat Lady bit off the rest of her tirade to look down at her with a strangely motherly concern. “Are you alright, dear?” 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Hermione said with the same subdued voice. “It won’t happen again. May I go in to bed, please?” The Fat Lady still looked troubled, but she refrained from questioning Hermione any further and swung open to allow her entrance to the common room. 

It was one in the morning, according to the stately grandfather clock that held pride of place on the wall directly opposite the portrait hole. On either side of the polished chestnut timepiece were the stone archways that lead to the boy’s and girl’s dormitories, their curving stone stairs swooping up to right and left of their respective doorways. On the far right of the common room Hermione could see a house elf scurrying past the low-burning fireplace with a basketful of robes it had gathered for washing by the morning. The creature paused when it saw her, then gave a little bob of a curtsey and a squeaky, “Evening, Miss. Does Miss need anything before Posy goes to do the washing up?” It was a mark of how distracted she truly was that Hermione didn’t go into a rant about Posy, or any house elf, working so hard in the middle of the night when any reasonable creature would be sleeping. She waved the elf off and turned to the stairs.

The girls in her dormitory were all fast asleep when Hermione pushed the door open and made her way inside, and she was thankful for it. She set her book bag on top of her trunk, shucked her school robes off, and changed mechanically from her uniform into her nightdress. The cool sheets of her bed felt soothing against Hermione’s skin, and she sank gratefully into the plush mattress, hugging her pillow tightly and pressing her face against its soft material. She felt drained by the evening’s events and sleep soon found Hermione heavy in the arms of Morpheus. 

+++ 

“Shh!” 

“Ouch! Son of a—!” 

“Lavender!” 

“What? It’s not my fault someone didn’t put their book bag away last night.” 

“Be quiet! You’ll wake her up!” 

“Good! She should be up; it’s practically eight o’clock. If we don’t hurry we’ll all miss breakfast and you know how cranky I get if I don’t get my morning tea and scones.” 

The loud whispers were coming from beyond the heavy red velvet curtains that shielded Hermione’s nest of blankets from the outside world. She stirred slightly, cracking her eyes open and squinting at the thin beam of sunlight that sliced into her haven from the dormitory window. She could hear the sound of people moving about in the bedroom trying to be quiet and failing, in the way that only teenage girls can do. There was thump as someone banged into something else, followed by a loud curse and an equally loud admonishment for the offender to shut up, and then a flurry of low whispers from all parties involved. Hermione could distinguish Ginny’s sharp hiss of annoyance as her friend ordered Lavender from the room. Lavender grumbled but left, though she walked rather heavier than she might ordinarily have done, to show her irritation with the youngest Weasley for kicking her out. 

Hermione considered staying in bed and pretending she hadn’t heard a thing. She had burrowed into a very comfortable position in her blankets and didn’t really feel like getting up for breakfast just then. _You don’t want to be late for Transfiguration_ , a small, scholarly voice reminded her as Hermione turned over and snuggled back into her blankets with a little smile. She tried to ignore it, but the voice only grew more persistent, telling Hermione that if she skipped class she would miss out on something important, fail her NEWTS, end up banished from the wizarding world, and find herself working at a department store selling outdated clothing to old ladies. That was enough to force her out of her cocoon and shove her bed-hangings wide to let in the warm morning light. 

“Good morning,” Hermione said brightly, squinting in the sunshine as she swung her legs over the side of her bed. Ginny was standing next to the polished maplewood Cheval mirror the girls all shared, dressed in her school robes and winding her bright copper locks into a thick braid that hung down to her waist. When Hermione spoke, Ginny turned around, her nimble fingers just finished twisting a hairband around the tail of the braid. 

“Uh, good morning?” Ginny sounded unsure if this statement was entirely true, or, if it was for her, why it would be for Hermione. She frowned at Hermione as the other girl jumped off her bed and hurried across the room to grab her freshly pressed uniform from her armoire. “You’re in a good mood this morning,” Ginny added, turning to gather the last of her schoolbooks together as Hermione dressed. She kept glancing at Hermione out of the corner of her eye as she did so. 

“It's Friday, isn’t that a socially mandated reason to be in a good mood?” Hermione countered, buttoning her blouse and casting her gaze around the room looking for her patent leather shoes. Spying them next to the trunk at the foot of her bed, Hermione perched on the edge of the curved wooden lid and tugged them on. Shrugging into her robes, she reached for her bag and turned back to Ginny. “Thanks for waiting for me. Ready to eat?” 

Ginny followed Hermione out of the room and down the winding staircase to the common room, still with that strange look on her face. Finally she cracked. “Hermione, are you ok?” 

Hermione looked over at Ginny, feeling a bit like she’d forgotten something. They didn’t have a test today did they? No, it was still too early in the term for that; though she thought she remembered Professor Merryweather hinting that she was going to give them a pop quiz in Transfiguration next week. “I’m fine, Gin. Why?” 

Ginny gave her another hard, searching look. “You came back pretty late last night,” she hedged, her tone neutral as she followed Hermione around a group of third year girls who were half-blocking the main staircase to the entrance hall, arguing about the best heating charm to use on a wand if one wanted to get a certain type of curls in her hair. 

Oh, right; she _had_ been rather late back to the dorm. Hermione’d thought all the girls had been asleep, but apparently she’d either woken Ginny up when she’d come in, or the other girl had been laying awake in her own bed. Ginny’s question tugged on a memory drifting past in the back of Hermione’s consciousness, prompting her still sleepy mind to try and recall why it was that she’d come back to the dorm late enough that Ginny would comment on it. 

A burst of noise met them as the girls entered the great hall, and distracting Hermione from her thoughts. The four house tables were crammed full of students, all of them seeming to be talking at once, while the tables in front of them strained under the weight of a variety of breakfast foods. Despite Lavender’s worries that they would miss the morning meal, there was clearly plenty of time left to eat, and so Hermione led Ginny toward the Gryffindor table on the far right of the long stone room, carefully seating herself on the a bench and reaching for a flagon of pumpkin juice. As she was lifting the heavy glass jug toward her goblet, her eyes met another’s, and the look of icy hatred in their blue depths seared straight through Hermione’s heart, such that she nearly dropped the juice jug. 

+++ 

Ron Weasley had been watching as she came into the hall that morning; he hadn’t been able to help himself, though Hermione wouldn’t have known that. He’d wandered the castle for hours after she’d broken things off the previous evening, then picked a fight with the first Slytherin boy he’d come across. It had been lucky for Ron that the boy had only been a somewhat snarky sixth year, wiry of build but a scrapper, and luckier still that the boy had been alone. Though not, perhaps, for the unfortunate Slytherin, who had done nothing more than mutter under his breath about the mopey way with which Ron had been ambling down the corridor. Disbelief and anger were thin below the surface for the Gryffindor boy just then, and he’d lunged at the other boy, grabbing a fistful of his robes and slamming him against the wall. 

The fight that had followed had been swift and brutal, ending only when Harry, Seamus, and Dean had come by on their way toward the Quidditch pitch. It had taken all three of them to pull Ron off his victim, who’d spent the next five minutes shouting about unjust attacks and how Gryffindors thought they could get away with anything; adding that “That bastard, Weasley better not walk on his own for the next month if knows what’s good for him,” before taking off in the direction of the Slytherin dungeon common room. It had taken another fifteen minutes for Ron’s friends to get the reason he’d jumped a Slytherin out of him, what with Ron fighting his friends’ restraining arms and shouting incoherently until long after his target had fled. 

That evening’s Qudditch practice had been a giant ball of chaos after that. Harry had supposed that flying would help to clear Ron’s head, but Ron had spent most of the practice tearing off from the goal posts at breakneck speed whenever he saw a bludger, and whacking it across the pitch with the tail of his broom hard enough to do more damage than the charmed balls could ever have done on their own. The Gryffindor captain called an early end to the practice match after one of Ron’s violent smacks very nearly knocked one of their Chaser’s off her broom from 200 feet, and Seamus and Harry practically had to wrestle Ron into the changing room. 

He’d been a fury in the common room later too; Ginny and Lavender had come in together, giggling and whispering about the Hufflepuff Qudditch captain that Lavender had talked into taking her to Hogsmeade that weekend, and Ron had lit into them, all but calling Lavender an easy lay and sniping that it was no wonder boys were all too willing to take her out, since she was so willing to _put out_ afterward. When Ginny, horrified at her brother’s rudeness, had shouted at him to back off and apologize, he’d started in on _her_ too; but Harry had leaped to his girlfriend’s defence and Dean had put his newly honed Quidditch muscles to good use by turning Ron around and forcing him bodily from the common room, muttering tightly that Ron should go up to their room and ‘sleep off’ his anger. Ron had gone, but he hadn’t left quietly, and Harry and Seamus had been left to explain just what had sent their mate off the deep end. 

That morning Ron sat between Dean and Neville, with Harry and Seamus across from him, but his eyes had been roaming the hall ever since they’d all sat down, watching and waiting. When he’d spied Hermione and Ginny coming their way, the hurt and jealous rage that had been simmering within him rose up hot and fierce, and he’d found himself glaring coldly at the girl sitting a few spaces down from him with a faint smile on her lips, a snarl twisting his own face into a hate-filled mask. 

+++ 

Hermione sucked in a tiny gasp of surprise as she met Ron’s furious gaze, and the events of the night before came rushing back. That’s right, she’d broken up with Ron. Somehow she’d blocked out the last few hours, but everything was reasserting itself with brutal clarity as Hermione locked eyes with the redhead on the other side of the table, his face nearly of a match with his hair. The ugly look Ron was giving her twisted her stomach, and suddenly Hermione wasn’t hungry any more. It was also a vivid reminder of why Hermione had ended things in the first place: Ron’s temper. 

She turned away and found Ginny watching her, the light freckles sprinkled across her nose standing out against the pale shade her small face had turned upon witnessing her brother’s hard look at her best friend. Ginny either already knew what had happened, or had guessed upon seeing the reactions Hermione and Ron had had to each other, Hermione could tell, and was grateful not to have to explain in so many words right then. She’d talk everything over with Ginny soon. 

“I—I forgot that I was supposed to meet Professor Merryweather before class this morning,” Hermione muttered, fumbling for her bag. Ginny wasn’t fooled, but she let the lie pass without a fight. 

“Alright. Want me to sneak you a muffin when Lav and I come in a little bit? I bet Merryweather wouldn't even mind if she caught us, seeing as I’d be using a transfiguration spell she hinted would be on our quiz next week,” Ginny said with a wink, making this offer with a mischievous smirk as Hermione stood from the bench, her back to the Gryffindor boys, then reached out and caught Hermione’s wrist as she passed, halting her long enough to add, “My brother is a git and you deserve better, so don’t let him get you down, ok?” 

Hermione swallowed hard and managed a slightly tremulous smile. “I won’t. Thanks, Gin.” Ginny waved her words off and gave her sympathetic smile, before turning a scornful look over her shoulder at her brother, and Hermione’s heart squeezed. She knew Ginny loved Ron as much as she had, that the youngest Weasley looked up to and respected her brother, but Hermione also knew Ginny had just as much experience with Ron’s poor attitude and flaring temper, and would in no uncertain terms have Hermione’s back over his in this situation. She just hoped that whatever Ron told his sister, let alone the rest of the Castle, about why he and Hermione were no longer dating, wasn’t as warped a reason as he’d come up with the last time they’d talked. Surely Hermione’s friends knew her better than to assume she’d be unfaithful. They would understand her reasons in the end; wouldn’t they?

+++

Draco quirked an eyebrow at her murmured reply. Not only was it plain that something was going on in her mind, but he could practically _hear_ her thinking. If that wasn’t enough to put Draco on edge, the way she hid her face from him alerted Draco that she wasn’t being as truthful as he’d wish. She probably still harboured feelings of embarrassment, of which Draco was ready to put an end to. It wasn’t her fault that Weasley was so socially inept. He was an adult by wizarding standards, and if years of interacting with decent folk wasn’t enough to instil a bit of proficiency in the manners department, he wasn’t sure what would. Potter, for all his brashness somehow managed not to stick his foot in it at every turn—this Draco could only assume, for Potter often walked without thought of what he stood where Draco was concerned—and some of that, for lack of a better word, skill, should have transferred to Weasley. But it seemed the boy was made of impervious material, selectively allowing only insights he agreed with to seep in. 

Granger’s breath heaved and caught, almost a sob. Draco knew that noise, the struggle to contain an emotion that struggled for freedom. He’d done the same after walking in on his mother trying to console a stony Lucius Malfoy, mute and deaf to the outside world as he fought to make sense of the world he now lived in, a world where he had come out on the losing end. The sight of his mother doing her best to coax a response, any response, from his father had been painful to witness. All this to say that he knew that noise for what it was. 

Eyes widening from their tired, slanted set, he sat up straight his body rigid with alertness as he looked at her. Was she crying? Suddenly Draco felt unprepared to face the onslaught of a distraught Granger. For all the mental preparations he had done, Draco felt adrift and unsure, more than a little displeased to see the usually stable Granger crumbling before him. He was torn between comforting her and overcoming the shock that had stilled him at seeing her blinking back tears. He knew he should do something, but what? A hug seemed too bold, and just the thought of it made Draco’s stomach flutter and clench all at once with warring emotions. 

She took in a deep, wobbly breath, then another, and before Draco could make much sense of what was happening, she was standing so quickly that her chair nearly lost it’s footing. Draco stood too, more of a reaction than anything else, his body moving a step back almost without thought as she made to step past him. He barely registered her words. 

“Granger?” he said gently, and when she didn’t respond, he said more urgently, “What’s wrong?” Still she was silent and tears spilled from her eyes, flowing over thick lashes onto pinkening cheeks. His heart, which had previously only been a muscle of function, grew heavy with more feeling than Draco thought it capable of. He could feel it, heavy, like something real, something solid pressing into the slender bones of his ribs. A curious, queer feeling, and yet it fit the moment perfectly. The name for that emotion evaded him, but it was present nonetheless. He felt sad, but it was more than just sadness, something complex and twisting, incited by Granger’s tears. She brushed passed him and Draco reached out, his fingers catching her elbow before she could get too far. 

“Granger!” he said again, hoping the sharpness of his tone would call her back to him. She swung around to face him, more of a result of his hold on her than her willingness to speak to him. He released her, speaking when he realized she wouldn’t. “…The guy is an arse and would run his mouth off of a cliff if no one stopped him. Maybe I should let him do it one day,” he said dryly, lips thinning. Draco had been left to pick up the pieces countless times when Blaise thought his opinion was more valuable than the feelings of the ones he offered it to. Draco’s diplomacy had blossomed under the stress of keeping the precarious bonds between Slytherins strong in the wake of his friends’ carelessness. 

He sobered as a thought occurred to him that maybe Granger needed someone other than he to comfort her. She probably didn’t feel comfortable expressing herself to him after so little time had passed between the Draco she’d previously believed him to be and the one she now knew. How could she know for sure that he wouldn’t blow off her concerns and just tell her to suck it up and move on. If he were honest that was exactly what Draco wanted to tell her. As far as he was concerned Weasley wasn’t worth her tears. The sooner she realized that the sooner she could see the truth behind the drag that was the relationship between the two of them. But even he knew that wasn’t what she needed to hear, so as much as it pained him to suggest it, he offered to fetch Weasley, and even Potter if she preferred. Really, they just needed a nice, tearful reunion to set them to rights, made all the better by the added drama of Draco’s part in summoning Weasley. Draco knew that if he were the one to bring Weasley around, despite the strain between them, she would be grateful. It would show that Draco could be more mature than a boot to the nose. Then they could have a proper kiss and go off to—ugh. Draco stopped his thoughts there. Any further and he would put himself in a mood. Just the thought of Weasley _kissing_ was enough to make lunch threaten to make an abrupt reappearance all over the ornate carpets. 

Granger’s hasty refusal threw him. He frowned, but he supposed it made sense. Weasley was probably the last person she wanted to see right now as he was the reason for her current state, Draco was sure. He was also sure that Granger wasn’t ailing but he decided not to call her out on her bluff, instead suggesting that he might walk her to her dorms, send her soup. As soon as he said that last bit he cringed, inwardly. Send her soup? Granger and he both knew that she wasn’t really sick, she was crying for Merlin’s sake, and though Draco was no healer, he knew of few maladies that would cause crying. Still, he reached for his bag. 

It turned out that it didn’t matter that they both knew she was lying. She stammered out an apology, turned, and all but _ran_ out of the dim lighting of the alcove. Draco stood there, stunned. He took a step, halted, and then took another only to halt again, torn. He wanted to go after her, but it was plain that she desired to be alone. 

What would a friend do in this instance? What would a _Gryffindor_ do? Draco rolled his eyes because he knew would a Gryffindor would do; they had no sense of decorum, never knew when to leave well enough alone. They pursued whether or not you wanted them to. Slytherins, however, knew when to let a person breath. The problem was that Draco didn’t know which move was the right move, and by the time he had made up his mind to go after her, he couldn’t find her. 

He knew better than to call after her. Not only did he doubt she would respond, but he would look like a loon, he Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Prince and sole heir to the Malfoy galleons—whatever remained of them after the Ministry had had their way with the fortune—yelling for Gryffindor royalty. Madam Pince would have his head, and only after he’d been stuffed and mounted, he’d be subject to the overprotective masses that made up the fan base of the Golden Trio. Hogwarts was an iffy population, but Draco knew that they held Potter and his friends up on a pedestal so high that even Greek gods would find it troublesome to reach it, high as they were up in the clouds. 

He returned to his alcove, his eyes scanning over the words in his book that he did not register, a tiny hope in his heart that maybe Granger would return with an explanation, but that hope was dashed when he heard Madam Pince announce the library was due to close for the evening. He gathered his things, slowly, with many pauses, in case Granger decided to reappear. She didn’t. Even then he moved without haste through the many dark isles, his mind worrying over Granger, unhearing of the tempting whispers of the texts around him. Usually he stopped to open a stray book when the spine caught his attention, giving it the respect it was due by flipping through to the first couple of pages, maybe even hauling the book to the front desk to check it out, despite Pince’s grumbles that he’d “had plenty of time to check out a book earlier in the day, and why was he waiting until now to bring her a heavy stack of texts, when she had so much work to do before she could close the doors of Hogwarts’ library?” Draco knew she was secretly pleased that someone could find the company of books just as fulfilling as she, so he ignored her protests—not that he would care one way or the other if she approved. Despite how much he’d changed, Draco found it hard to care for the mindset of someone who had made it their business to make his life difficult. Who knew that a librarian could hold so much power?

Draco traversed the nearly empty halls to Slytherin dorm, halls that were nearly vacant the closer he came to the bare stretch of wall that hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room. There was no sign of Granger the whole way, and with a heavy sigh Draco intoned the password, “Atonement,”—the significance of which was not lost on him, and surely was not lost on his fellow housemates—and was welcomed with a smirking Blaise. As Blaise opened his mouth to speak, Draco brandished his wand and silenced him. He was in no mood for whatever witty remark Blaise thought to bestow upon him. Without a backwards glance, he headed for their shared rooms. 

Clothed in silky, luxurious sleeping robes—Draco was in a mood to spoil himself tonight—he drew the curtains around his bed with a finality that said to those who lounged on their beds that Draco was unavailable for idle chat. He lay on his pillow, hands tucked behind his bed, and stared up at the canopy that stretched above him until sleep claimed him. 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Draco woke unnaturally early the next morning, his eyes popping open as if his body couldn’t stand a moment more of rest. He felt like death warmed over. His dreams had been weird and disquieting, frequently dragging him from his sleep over the course of the night. Still his body urged him to wakefulness at five AM sharp. Never one to let time waste away, Draco had risen from his bed and enjoyed a nice, lengthy shower before donning his school uniform. Still of the mindset that he deserved to be treated, he wore one of the long-sleeved button downs that he’d acquired over the summer for the start of term that fit the fine lines of his form just so. It was true that he never went a term without an entirely new set of clothes for the year, but this time Draco had taken a chance with the colour of his tops and slacks. He usually went for a more classic look, but in the spirit of change Draco had opted to take note of the trends of Paris and bought a shirt that made a graceful transition between stark white about the shoulders and a pale, soft grey as the garment transitioned towards the hem. Strictly speaking the shirt wasn’t dress code, but no one would know unless Draco shucked the tacky outer vest. It would be Draco’s little secret. The way the soft fabric hugged his body was enough of a reward for him. He beat most of the boys in his dorm to breakfast that morning and placed himself strategically so that he could see the doors to the entrance hall. 

He made a show of picking carefully through his meal to hide the conspicuous glances he was throwing towards the entrance to the dining hall. A bit of conversation caught his attention as he spooned a small helping of yogurt sweetened with a healthy dollop of honey into his mouth. His teeth bit into the ripe blueberries and raspberries with relish as he listened. 

“It was like he was possessed or something,” a boy, Kieran Wittlesbrite Draco recalled, a couple seats down from him was saying with barely suppressed anger.

“He was itching for a fight,” his friend piped up, a thick hand gripping the stem of his goblet with crushing force. “Just laid into you, did he?” 

Now that Draco had a chance to look at him, he could see that Kieran’s eye was yellow with a fading bruise and his lip had been split and was now scabbed over down the middle. Kieran’s hands were red and mottled with discolouration about the knuckles. There was no telling what other hurts were hidden beneath his robes. Draco, unable to resist, leaned forward to better hear their conversation, his grey eyes sharp as they peered over at Kieran. Noticing that he now held Draco’s attention, Kieran straightened with bravado, his voice rising so that more could hear him as he spoke. 

“I barely said a thing to him before he was on me.” His tongue flicked out over the cut on his lip before he continued. “I’d at least liked to have insulted him properly to deserve the way he attacked me. All I said was that he looked pathetic moping about the halls like that.” 

Draco, having a very strong suspicion already as to who it was that had delivered such a beating to Kieran, spoke up. “Who was it?” His tone was hard and clear, and held no suggestion that he was in the mood to be dragged about trying to pry information from the boy. 

Still, Kieran milked the moment, pausing heavily so that he had the attention of everyone within earshot. “Ron Weasley,” he said with gravity. 

A sinking feeling took hold of Draco. He looked over at the Gryffindor table and though Weasley wasn’t facing him, Draco could still see his pinched profile. He looked even more volatile than he had the evening of the argument. His fists stiff balls against the table, his body rigid with tension as his eyes glanced repeatedly at the doors of the great hall. A problem now presented itself to Draco; he could not simply allow Ron to get away with beating up on his housemates. He knew it was not by chance that he had overheard this conversation. Slytherins weren’t snitches or tattletales and mostly handled their problems on their own, but everyone in Draco’s house knew that confronting Weasley after everything that had happened last year wasn’t so small a thing as it would have been previously. They were used to being the pariah of the school, but no one wanted the problems that would arise if any of them were to take it upon themselves to go after Weasley. And so the issue had been laid before Draco as it had been done for years. He wasn’t the head boy anymore, and in truth, a problem such as this should have fallen on the shoulders of the person in that role, but this was tricky. Draco knew what he should do, he should bring this to the attention of the head of house, or, really, the headmistress as Draco was sure that it being Weasley who was the culprit, someone with more authority should be brought in, but the attack was personal and unwarranted. Weasley was still hot after the tiff between he and Granger and was looking for any reason to let off steam. 

Still, Draco found it odd that Weasley could be so upset. Weasley was hot headed, but this sort of prolonged aggression was unheard of even from him. Though his temper came to him fast, he was usually quick to shuck it off. Draco was loath to admit it, but Weasley had great friends, and that none of them could cool his temper was puzzling. There was something more to this, and Draco would root it out soon enough. 

“Leave it to me,” Draco said finally, and looked back over to Kieran with conviction in his eyes. Kieran nodded, his face grim despite the knowing tilt of his mouth. Draco didn’t know what he would do, but his assurance that he would see to Weasley would be enough to put to rest any ideas of handling the situation themselves, however unlikely that seemed. 

Just then Granger walked into the hall with friends in tow. Ginny Weasley looked as bright and alert as ever, but she kept stealing little glances over at Granger as if she was expecting something of her. Granger, for her part, looked in surprisingly good spirits. Draco frowned ever so slightly. She’d been nearly incoherent last night but she had none of that about her now. She looked clear and as buoyant as ever as she strode over to the Gryffindor table. Draco wanted to feel good about that, but it was just too much of a 180 after seeing her cry. 

Almost mechanically, Draco brought another spoon of yogurt and fruit to his mouth and chewed, half a mind set on keeping up an unbothered appearance. Granger sat and poured herself a drink looking up at Weasley. Draco felt himself stop breathing as a beat passed and Granger’s open features drew down into a slump of unhappiness. Draco could see that she spoke, but could not make out what she said as she took to her feet again. Ginny caught her before Granger could escape and it seemed whatever she said soothed Granger to some extent. In that moment Draco was grateful for Ginerva Weasley. That she could be counted on to have Granger’s back despite Weasley’s disposition spoke loads for her character, and Draco decided then that, of all Granger’s friends, he would try his best to get along with her. Like Granger, Ginny was just another pawn caught up in the struggle between Potter, The Dark Lord, and Draco. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t make every effort to befriend her if she would allow it. 

Draco’s frown deepened as he wondered over his sudden sentimentality. Maybe he was being a little too optimistic in thinking the girl Weasley would have anything to do with him. She was still Weasley’s sister after all. Granger was out of the great hall in long, determined strides, her body curling in on itself in defence against the world. Draco turned his attention back towards the students around him in time to see a crisp looking Blaise shove his way between the two Slytherins across from Draco. 

“Morning,” Blaise said in gravely, sleep-worn tones, and proceeded to pour himself a strong, black tea. He was worth less than dirt before his morning cuppa and Draco was thankful for the small moments of reprieve before Blaise came to full wakefulness. 

“Have you seen Madam Pomfrey?” Draco wanted to know, directing his question at Kieran, who was touching lightly at the swollen skin under his eye. 

Kieran smiled wryly. “She’s the only reason I look as good as I do,” he said truthfully. “I was a right sight when I came to her last night. Made me spend the night, she did,” he said with a huff, and everyone chuckled, as they knew how fussy the woman could be. “Nearly drug me to the headmistress when I woke this morning, but I told her it was just an unfortunate tumble from a broom.” Kieran’s eyes did a half roll as he sighed. “Something tells me I haven’t heard the last from her. Don’t think she believed me, but I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I?” 

Draco nodded once. “You did the right thing. What Weasley did was abominable. I don’t care if he helped save all our arses, he should have to pay for what he did.” 

“What happened?” Blaise asked, his eyes finally lifting from his second cup of tea to join reality. He looked over at Kieran and his thick eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “You look bloody awful Kieran, worse than usual,” he remarked with a hint of admonishment that Kieran would dare present such an unpleasant sight for Blaise to look upon. 

“Sterling observation, Zabini,” Kieran deadpanned with barely a glance Blaise’s way. “Weasley was in a mood last night and thought to take it out on me,” he explained. 

Blaise’s eyes lit with interest. “You don’t say.” He looked to Draco, who was already counting to ten in his head in preparation for whatever stupid thing Blaise might say to infuriate him. “Must have seen something he didn’t like,” he said slyly, which wasn’t half as bad as Draco had expected, but was still enough to cause a nerve to twitch in his eye. 

“Sadly, his mood was no doing of mine,” Draco said breezily, entertaining the thought of finally getting to lay into Weasley. “He and Granger did have that fight,” he reminded them all, hoping to steer the conversation, and mainly Blaise, away from the path he was so doggedly seeking these days. 

“Because of you,” Blaise helpfully supplied. 

“Because,” Draco said, his eyes narrowed, “Weasley has some major trust issues to work through.” 

Blaise smirked and shrugged one shoulder. “Semantics, really.” 

Draco didn’t bother replying. Continuing to argue with Blaise would only prove that his words held some truth and Draco wasn’t quite ready to hash out his friendship with Granger with his fellow Slytherins just yet. He was still trying to figure it out himself. With that in mind, Draco tugged the serviette from his collar and tossed it on to the table. He gathered his things and bid his housemates farewell. He levelled a meaningful look at Kieran, reminding the boy that his quandary was still at the forefront of Draco’s mind, and took his leave in search for Granger.

The halls were busy as usual, though there was a marked difference from the excited buzz of energy that had filled them on the first day of class, and the resigned air in which everyone moved about them now. Draco had thought it would take longer for the novelty of returning to Hogwarts to wear off for the student body, but in the end classes were still just classes; the work was hard and gruelling, and although the normalcy was deeply appreciated after the strain of a war, having to sit through lectures was boring business. 

Draco would have first tried finding Granger near her first class, but he was unaware of the layout of her timetable, and so did not have much to go on as he roamed the castle. He’d hoped that whatever force had directed him towards her before would kick in now, but as he ambled along he felt no particular pull one way or another. Instead he headed for the grounds and immediately regretted leaving the warmth of the castle as a stiff breeze rushed up to greet him. He turned on the spot and reentered the castle, only to see Weasley, Potter and Thomas coming down the hall. He wasn’t proud of the way he ducked for cover in the shadow of a tall marble column, but he just couldn’t persuade himself to intentionally put himself in Weasley’s path, not just yet. Weasley spearheaded the trio, but Potter looked ready to snatch his friend up if he got into any trouble, which didn’t seem unwise if the look on Weasley’s face was any indication. Draco watched until they were out of sight and even waited a few more seconds to be sure before he eased out of his hiding place. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed his reappearance, but no one did. Draco headed in the opposite direction from the three Gryffindors. He would be late if he kept such a lazy pace, and he was definitely going the long way to reach his first period, but that couldn’t be helped. As it was he breezed into the classroom, all flowing robes and long legs just in the nick of time. Draco had no sooner found his seat than the professor made a clumsy entrance into the room. 

Some people found the professor endearing, but for Draco, Professor Hoosier’s bumbling act set his teeth on edge. It was as if the man had the sole objective to give Muggle Studies a bad name. Many already looked on the class as one of the more useless electives, a viewpoint that Hogwarts was trying to change in light of the war. With Professor Hoosier stumbling over the floor, his feet, and anything else that was not strictly level with the ground, it was hard to take anything he said or did seriously. When he was not teetering on the verge of mortal peril by inanimate objects, Hoosier was forgetting things, misplacing things and, most annoying of all, repeating things. It was a boon that the course relied so heavily upon reading. Draco felt he would not benefit otherwise. He supposed it had come down to finding someone who was willing to risk teaching a Muggle Studies class in the current climate, but Draco was beginning to think _he_ could teach the class better than Professor Hoosier if given the chance. 

The man had been given leave to wear Muggle attire for a more “authentic” experience during class. He was clothed in a drab assembly of browns and tans, the only blessed relief from the dismal selection being a pop of olive green tucked into the pocket of his overcoat. It was boring, boring, boring. Draco’s eyes hurt by the end of the lesson from straining over the uninspiring palate. If he didn’t think Hoosier would be terribly insulted, Draco would offer his assistance just to save his eyes the trouble of looking at him dressed so. As it was Professor Hoosier managed to find his way to the front of the class without much incident and started the class by discussing the assigned book. Blaise was hardly paying attention as usual, preferring to lavish his attention on a stony looking Sylvia, but Phil often raised his hand and contributed his opinion. Draco only half listened as he thought over how he should approach the ‘Weasley Situation’. He would also have to talk to Granger if he could catch up with her sometime today. It wouldn’t do to let her go on thinking that she had avoided his concern so easily. 

“And now for a bit of fun!” Professor Hoosier boomed. His voice, contrary to the lanky, awkward set of him, was deep and reaching. It shook Draco from his stupor and he looked up to see a stack of parchments rise into the air and spread out amongst the students until everyone had a leaflet in front of them. “Muggles For a Day!” he announced happily. 

Draco all but groaned as he stared down at the parchment before him. The rest of the class didn’t have his restraint, for they did groan aloud. 

“Oh, don’t be such poor sports, students,” Hoosier rebuked them as he paced the stretch of stone before his desk. “This will be a lot of fun, I can promise you. Especially for those of you who are more unfamiliar with the ways of Muggles.” He might as well have said purebloods, Draco thought unhappily. “First, we will dress as Muggles,” Hoosier said, and performed a half bow at the waist, his hand gesturing over his clothes. “As you can see from what I’m wearing, Muggles tend not to wear robes unless associated with a religious sect.” He paused, a thick finger held in the air. “At least that is true for the Muggles of Britain. There are many styles of dress all over the world and we will discuss them as the year wears on. There will be many opportunities to explore those styles as we touch upon each region, but for this week we will start with something more familiar.” 

Draco didn’t like the sound of that. He was a well travelled man and knew that even the Wizards of different nations dressed in strange fashions. There was no telling what the Muggles of those nations doned on the day to day. 

“If you tap your wand upon the different modules on the parchment before you, a clever bit of magic if I do say so myself,” Here the professor preened for a bit before continuing, “The module will enlarge itself with research on the corresponding topic. We have Transportation, Clothing, Electronics—that one will present a few more modules for you to explore as Muggles have an endless number of gadgets and whatsists to aid them through life—Entertainment, and Culture.” Professor Hoosier allowed a silence to fall as each student took the time to explore the parchment. “Now, your first task will consist of two parts; clothing,” he said, unfurling a pointer finger as he listed, “And gadgets.” His middle finger followed. “Here I have what is called a cell phone.” Hoosier held up a thin, black square. He tapped the front of it and it lit up to show a colourful, brightly lit display. “As you all well know Muggle electricity and magic don’t fare well together, but with the help of the Department of Mysteries we have managed to configure a device that will simulate a real Muggle cell phone while running on magic.” Hoosier flicked his wand and the phones dispersed much like the parchment had until everyone possessed a cell phone. 

Despite himself, Draco was curious. It was no small feat to get a Muggle electronic to function while under the influence of magic and Draco was impressed that the Department of Mysteries was able to successfully figure it out. He knew he would spend at least a few hours poking and prodding at the device to reveal its secrets. 

“For the remainder of the class you will be allowed to explore the parchment and cell phone. I would like one paragraph by the end of the lesson on your initial impressions.” With that Professor Hoosier took his seat behind his desk. Almost immediately a small crowed formed of students with questions, cell phones in hand. 

Draco picked up his cellphone and the display lit up. He put the cellphone back down and the display went dark again. “Hmm,” he hummed softly, amused. 

“Isn’t this just brilliant?” Phil said from the table next to him, his finger swiping over the glass display. “I say, Muggles are clever.” 

Blaise tried his best to look indifferent, but Draco could see in the set of his mouth that he was impressed. “Sounds like a lot of work,” he said as he pressed on a small, grey and black icon. The display changed so that it showed the desk and the back of the chair in front him. “I think I’ve broken it,” he said, jabbing at the screen repeatedly. A small clicking noise emanated from the device, the screen flashing white again and again as he poked at it. 

“That’s the camera,” Sylvia informed him, and leaned over to show Blaise her parchment. It was filled with information on the cellphone. “You’re just taking pictures.” 

Blaise smiled at this and aimed the cellphone at Draco, snapping a picture of his deep scowl. Blaise pressed on a small square in the bottom left corner and the picture he’d just taken filled the screen. “Hm, I’ll have to find a better muse,” he said absently and snapped a picture of Sylvia as she read over her parchment. “Much better,” he muttered. 

Draco could already see that Blaise armed with a cellphone was going to be trouble. 

++++ 

Lunch was Draco’s best bet as far as finding Granger was concerned. He made sure he was first out of class when the lesson ended, and he made quick work of the halls until he reached the arching atrium of the great hall. He stood off to the side, eyes scanning the crowd for the familiar curly brunette locks. He waved on his friends when they caught up to him, and had to threatened to _Silencio_ Blaise again when it seemed his friend wasn’t getting the hint that Draco desired to be alone. When finally he spotted Granger, Draco moved in, making sure he walked at a slow, but deliberate pace so that no one could mistake his approach for anything other than friendly. He was relieved to see that Weasley wasn’t in sight, or, at least not the Weasley he was thinking of. Ginny was by Granger’s side, looking stern when she noticed him coming their way. Her hand was on Granger’s arm, a brief touch of reassurance. Draco was almost insulted by the gesture. She must know that Granger was no longer on bad terms with Draco, and that if he was up to no good he would find a more conspicuous place to do whatever bad thing it was she envisioned than the bustling halls of Hogwarts in full view of practically everyone. 

“Miss Weasley, Miss Brown,” Draco said politely, nodding in kind to each of them. Ginny only stared at him, while Lavender chanced a hesitant smile. “Granger, if you don’t mind I’d like to have a moment of your time.” Draco felt like a bit of a berk speaking so formally, but when he felt uncomfortable he fell back on his upbringing. Being formal was never the wrong way to go in most situations. 

Granger looked ready to refuse, her eyes darting around as if searching for an excuse, any excuse, to refuse him. “I was just about to go to lunch, Malfoy,” she said, nodding her head towards the flow of students as they made their way through the archway to the dining tables. “Can’t this wait until later?” 

Draco swallowed down a sarcastic remark; if it could wait until later he certainly would have waited. It took a lot for Draco to approach her so directly where all could see, especially since news was beginning to spread that Draco was hanging about with Granger, and that she and Weasley had argued over it. Draco would have jumped at the chance to be a part of such a scandal in earlier years, but now he wished to have no part of it. He knew that talking to her out in the open would only spur the rumours, but Granger was more important than all that. When he’d realized that it had bowled him over. Draco was nothing if not his reputation, and that he would disregard it in order to assure Granger’s well-being was… startling—he’d been known to drop friends without a moments notice if he felt their actions would drag him down the social totem pole. He needed to make sure that she was OK for his peace of mind, if nothing else. Anyway he knew that replying sarcastically would only cause the girl weasel to step in, ruining any chance he had at seeing Granger. He’d earlier commended Ginny for supporting Granger, but if she got in his way when all he had was the best of intentions, he wouldn’t be so quick to endorse her. 

“Maybe we could go down to the kitchens for a bite, but I must insist,” he said as levelly as he could, his lips pressed together against the scowl that wanted to take hold. 

Granger looked at him almost pleadingly, and Draco nearly faltered, nearly told her that he would catch up to her later. But his conviction firmed inside him and he looked at her, unwavering. He could see the moment she gave in. She blinked, a fluttering of thick eyelashes, before she turned an apologetic look on Ginny. “I’ll be back before class,” she said, and Draco heard the promise for what it was. If she wasn’t back by then she was giving Ginny permission to raise hell if she wanted to. 

Draco wanted to believe the promise had been solely to placate Ginny, but he wasn’t so sure. True, it was terrible for Draco to insist that she talk with him when she so clearly did not want to, but he felt it was his duty as a friend to make sure that she knew she could talk to him if she needed to. Last night had been awful, watching her words bottle up in her throat when she was so obviously in pain. Draco could never replace Granger’s friends, in fact he didn’t want to, but he did want Granger to know that he was there for her. 

“Are you sure, Hermione?” Ginny was the picture of concern. She touched Granger again on the arm, pale skin dotted with freckles on thin fingers. She flicked an annoyed look at Draco. “Malfoy can bugger off if you want. You owe him nothing,” she reminded her. 

Draco suppressed a sigh, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from lifting to the ceiling in exasperation. “I just want to talk. I don’t intend to poison her or anything,” he said, hoping that he brought to mind how wrongly Ginny and her lot had been to accuse him of just such a thing in Herbology. It worked, for Ginny looked sheepish, but only for a second. Probably she wasn’t completely convinced that he hadn’t poisoned Granger. 

“It’s fine, Ginny,” Granger placated, her hand reaching up to cover Ginny’s own on her arm. “If Malfoy truly wished me harm he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so before today.” That didn’t make Ginny any happier, really it seemed only to disturb her more. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she said more firmly, when it looked as though Ginny would protest. 

Granger looked resigned when she turned to follow Draco, but at least she had agreed. They walked in awkward silence for a bit, Draco angling them towards the kitchens for that stipulated bite of food. The Malfoy’s weren’t famed for their kind treatment of house elves, but Draco in particular was popular amongst them for his compassionate manner in contrast to his father’s brutal handling. They liked Draco as much as anyone could be liked by house elves, and were more likely to accommodate the stray unorthodox request if he asked nicely. 

“Last night,” Draco began, feeling unsure how to continue, but determined to brazen it out. “Last night you were really upset, and you left before I could find out why.” 

Granger’s hands were knots, twisting around one another as she walked silently beside him. Draco realized it would take more than that to persuade her to talk.

“I tried to find you in the library but it was as if you had disappeared.” He paused to steady the quiver in his voice borne of nervousness at broaching the subject of last night. “Where did you go?” 

“Not far,” Granger said quietly, after a beat of silence. 

Draco waited for her to say more, but she reminded quiet. He let the silence reign until they reached the kitchens. As was to be expected during lunch, the kitchens were busy with motion. Draco ducked out of the way of a bowl full to spilling with a dark green substance, his hand reaching out to halt Granger before she could be brained by the it. Quickly he pulled his hand away from her shoulder where it had landed, feeling uncomfortable about touching her in such a tense moment. Crouching below the constant stream of airborne dishes, Draco steered her to a rickety table and chairs for three, somewhat out of the way of the clamour around them. 

Granger sat gingerly but wasn’t inclined to meet Draco’s eye when he looked at her. He sighed, a great drag of breath in and out of his lungs and that seemed to catch her attention. She looked up at him as if surprised that he could be so weary of anything. 

“I’m not Potter,” he began, and for once it was he who could not look up. He stared down at the worn table in front of him. “Or Ginerva,” the name rolled off of his tongue unwieldy, but it was the only way he could make the distinction between Weasley and Ginny without outright insulting Granger’s friend. “Or even Brown. But,” And he drew in another breath, looking up at Granger with steady eyes, “I’d like to think that I could be someone you could trust, eventually. Last night you were,” he waved a hand, not wanting to put a name to what he’d seen, as it felt too raw, too real for words. “And you…you ran.” The words broke loose from him with more feeling than he had wanted. He swallowed, pulling his emotions in tight. “I just want to know that you’re alright, Granger,” he said at last. 

It was surreal sharing this moment with Granger when so much was going on around them. House elves constantly popped in and out of existence and trays heavily laden with food zipped around them. There were crashes and squeaks as food was prepared and sent out for those waiting for it. Yet there they sat at a small, wobbly table, just the two of them, on the brink of something new. Or at least new to Draco. 

Granger looked at him, her eyes glancing from one hard grey eye to the other, and she looked ready to break at the seams. She ducked her head and her fingers swiped briskly at her cheeks. “I’m not alright, Draco,” she admitted in a choked voice. His name on her lips pulled at something deep within him. He wasn’t sure she realized she had even said it. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be alright but,” she paused, and wiped at her eyes again, “I just can’t talk about it right now. It’s too fresh.” She looked up at him, eyes red rimmed and leaking. “I—thank you, I know it took a lot to—but I just can’t. Not right now.” She stood and was suddenly dashing quickly for the door. 

As if on repeat, Draco stood, stepping around the table to stop her before Granger could disappear. He was a wall before her, and so upset was she that Granger didn’t even realize Draco was standing in her path. She bounced off of him and Draco reach out and grasped her arms, pulling her into him. She struggled, stiff and unyielding for just an instant, and then she sagged and let Draco hold her. She cried in his arms, and her face brushed against the soft fabric of his chest until her cheek rested against him. Her arms where curled up between them, hands tight. He felt like stone, wrapped around her, strong and sure and maybe a bit awkward. The fingers of one hand brushed against her shoulder, a soothing back and forth. When it seemed Granger had calmed, Draco swayed back enough that he could see the top of her head. He uncurled one arm from around her and tilted her head up by the chin to see her face. Her eyes were still watery but she no longer cried. Absently he brushed at a stray tear on her cheek, which was warm to the touch, soft and so smooth that Draco ached to cup it with his palm, to draw some of that warmth into him. 

“When you’re ready,” he murmured over the racket around them, “I’ll be here.” He drew back reluctantly, allowing Granger room to breath and to collect herself. “Until then, why don’t we see what the house elves can conjure up for us.” He moved to his seat and was happy to see that Granger did the same. 

“Malfoy—” Granger began. 

“Call me Draco,” he requested, and when she looked surprised Draco amended, “At least when it’s just us. I think we’re familiar enough with each other to go by our first names.” The end of his sentence drew up in a question in a rare show of uncertainty. That Granger was still here boded well for Draco, but he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. 

“Draco,” Granger said, her mouth forming around his name carefully, testing it. Draco liked the sound of it. His name, two breathy syllables spoken in Granger’s clear, gentle voice. His answering smile was a kind one. “I suppose you should call me Hermione, then,” she said, then added, “It’s only right.” 

Draco dipped his head, “Hermione,” he said with no small amount of delight. He hoped he wasn’t so obvious about it, but Granger was looking at him with a knowing smile, wavering as it was. Her smile faded as she began to speak again.

***

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